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A New Novel by the Author op 

“Donovan,” “Knight-Errant,” “WeTv/o,” “ In the Golden Days,” etc. 


READY IN THE APRIL NUMBER OF 

Jl^ejNleu/YorK pasl^iop Bazar 

A NEW STORY, ENTITLED 

‘A HAEDY NOESEMAN.” 

By Edna Lyall, 

Author of Donovan,'" '‘'Knight-Errant,'''' "In the Golden Days," etc. 


“A Hardy Norseman” is a fresh and picturesque novel of Norwegian 
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‘‘MT HEAET’S DAELmG” 

(HERZENSKRISEN). 

Translated from the German op W. Heimburg, 

AND 

“THE REPROACH OF ANNESLET.” 

BY MAXWELL GRAY, 

Author op “The Silence op Dean Maitland,” etc. 


“The Silence op Dean Maitland,” published in The Seaside Library, 
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author will be eagerly read. 


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AND OTHERS. 

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THE 


REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


BY 

MAXWELL GRAY.. 


“Give me the man that is not passion’s slave.” 




NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewateu Steeet. 


MAXWELL GEAY^S WOEKS 


CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION) I 


1034 The Silence of Dean Mait- 1 1182 The Eeproach of Annesley. 
land. I 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


PARI L 


CHAPTER 1. 

FOOTSTEPS. 

Silence and solitude reigned all around; a solitude invaded 
by the appearance of no living creature save distant flocks of 
sheep dotted at large over upland pastures or grouped in wat- 
tled folds; a silence rather deepened than broken by the 
peculiar and by no means unmusical sound of the wind sweep- 
ing through the short pale-yellow bents whi^h rose sparsely 
above the fine rich turf of the down. The narrow^, white 
high-road ran straight along the summit of the down; it was 
unfenced on one side, where the turf sloped so abruptly down 
to a rich cultivated level as to make this almost invisible from 
the road, and on the other bounded by a bank, purple with 
wild thyme in summer, and crested by a high quickset hedge, 
which effectually concealed the northern slope of the down and 
the wooded country beneath it spreading away to the sea. 
This thorn hedge, which, in default of leaves and blossoms, 
bore masses of thick and hoary lichen, instead of growing erect 
from its bank, running nearly east and west, arched over to the 
north-east with a smooth exactitude of curve, due to the fierce 
briny sweep of the prevailing winds, and was by the same 
agency smoothly shorn on the leeward side. These strong salt 
winds blowing off the sea, and frequently rising to gales, give 
all the trees and hedges within their influence a marked family 
likeness, stunting their growth, and forcing them to bow to 
the north-east as if suddenly made rigid in the height of a 
south-west gale. 

But the salt south-west was silent on this cloudy March 
afternoon, and in its place a bleak east wind, whirling the 
white dust from the flinty chalk road, and quieting gradually 
down as the sun drew nearer the west, was sweeping over the 
short turf with its low, lonely sound, which is half whistle and 


6 


THE REPROACH OF AH LESLEY. 


half moan. The rich level to the south of the down, sprinkled 
though it was with occasional farms, each with its cluster of 
ricks and elm-trees, and varied here and there by a village 
spire rising from a little circle of thatched roofs, looked very 
solitary beneath the gray sky. It terminated on the east in 
some picturesquely broken hills, interrupted by a long, level 
gray band, which was the sea, and on the south in more hills 
of moderate height and irregular outline, which derived an 
unusual grandeur this afternoon from the deep purple shadows 
resting upon them, and emphasizing their contour against the 
silvery-gray sky, a sky full of latent light. On the west again 
there were hills of gentler outline, beyond these little glimpses 
of plain and woodland, and on the furthest limit a curving 
break filled with a polished surface of sea, reflecting the dim 
yellow luster of the declining sun, which glowed faintly 
through the curdling clouds above. 

The wind went on singing its strange low song to the bleak 
down-land; the far-off farms and villages gave no sign of life; 
but one solitary sea-gull sailed slowly by on its wide, unearthly 
looking wings far below the level of the high-road, yet far 
above the plain beneath, uttering its complaining cry and re- 
ceiving the pale reflected sun-rays upon its cream-white plum- 
age, thus making a center of light upon the purply-gray dark- 
ness of the plain and the hills. It passed gradually out of 
sight, and the silence seemed more death-like than before. 

Yet life and music were near, and only awaiting the sum- 
mons of soft airs and warm sunbeams to spring forth and 
make the earth glad with beauty and melody. The gnarled, 
storm-bent thorns were showing tiny leaf-buds on their brown 
branches where the tangled gray lichens did not usurp their 
place; cowslips were pushing little satiny spirals through the 
short turf on the hedge banks; down in the copses, and be- 
neath sheltered hedge -rows, primroses were showing their 
sweet, pensive faces, and white violets were budding. Many a 
nest was already built; many a bird already felt the welcome 
pressure of eggs beneath its warm breast and tasted the full- 
ness of the spring-time; the tall elms on the plain already 
wore their warin purple robe of blossom; black buds on the 
gray ash-stems in the copses were swelling to bursting-point 
above the primroses. Yet all seemed lifeless; the red-brown 
leaves on the oak boughs shivered in the blast; it was scarcely 
possible to prophesy of- the green and golden glory that would 
clothe them in one brief month. Could those dry bones live? 

Presently something black rose silently and swiftly above 
the green turf border of the chalk road. Beneath it appeared 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 7 

a human face, next a pair of broad shoulders, and finally the 
whole figure of a man emerged as if from the heart of the 
earth, and stood fully outlined against the chill sky. 

He was young, and strongly rather than gracefully built; 
the keen wind, from which he did not flinch by so much as an 
eye-blink, imparted a healthy pink to his clear complexion. 
His fair hair was crisped by the wind, and his gray eyes looked 
all round the wide scene, on which his back had been turned 
while stepping lightly up the down, in a singular manner. 
Instead of gazing straightforward like other people^s, they 
looked downward from beneath his eyelids, as if he had diffi- 
culty in raising the latter. Having rapidly surveyed earth, 
sea and sky, he turned and walked westward along the edge 
of turf by the road, so that his footsteps still made no sound, 
drew a watch from his pocket, then replaced it beneath his 
warm pea-jacket, muttering to himself, “ Early yet.^^ 

Soon he heard a sound as of a multitudinous scraping and 
panting, above which tinkled a bell; a cloud of dust rose a 
foot high from the road, showing as it parted the yellow fleeces 
and black legs and muzzles of a flock of Southdown sheep. 
He stood aside motionless upon the turf, to let them pass with- 
out hinderance; but one of the timid creatures nevertheless 
took fright at him, and darted down the slope, followed by an 
unreasoning crowd of imitators. It did not need a low faint 
cry from the shepherd, who loomed far behind above the cloud 
of white dust, himself spectral-looking in his long, grayish- 
white smock-frock to send a gallant sheep-dog over the turf, 
with his fringes floating in the wind, and his tongue hanging 
from his formidable jaws, while he uttered short angry barks 
of reproof, and drove the truants into the right path again. 
But again and yet again some indiscretion on the part of the 
timid little black faces demanded the energies of thek* lively 
and fussy guardian, who darted from one end of the flock to 
the other with joyous rapidity, hustling this sheep, grumbling 
at that, barking here, remonstrating there, and driving the 
bewildered creatures hither and thither with a zeal that was 
occasionally in excess, and drew forth a brief monosyllable 
from his master, which caused the dog to fly back and walk 
sedately behind him with an instant obedience that was as de- 
lightful as his intelligent activity. The actual commander of 
this host of living things gave little sign of energy, but walked 
heavily behind his charges with a slow and slouching gait, par- 
tially supporting himself on his long crooked stick, and carry- 
ing under his left arm a lamb which bleated in the purpose- 
less way characteristic of these creatures. Yet his gaze was 


8 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


everywhere, and he, like his zealous lieutenant, the dog, could 
distinguish each of these numerous and apparently featureless 
creatures from the other, and every now and then a slight 
motion of his crook, or some inarticulate sound, conveyed a 
whole code of instructions to the eager, watcliful dog, who 
straightway acted upon them. All this the young man mo- 
tionless on the turf watched with interest, as if a flock of sheep 
were something uncommon or worthy of contemplation; and 
when they had all gone by, and the shepherd himself passed in 
review, his yellow, sun-bleached beard shaken by the keen 
wind he was facing, he transferred his attention to him. 

“ Blusterous, said the shepherd, making his crook approach 
his battered felt hat, when he came up with him. 

“ Very blusterous, responded the gentleman, nodding in a 
friendly manner and resuming his road. 

This was their whole conversation, and yet the shepherd 
pondered upon it miles, and recounted it to his wife as one 
of the day’s chie'f -fncidents. 

“ And I zes to ’n, ‘ Blusterous ’ — 1 zes; and he zes to me, 
‘ Terble blusterous,’ he zes. Ay, that’s what ’ee zed, zure 
enough,” he repeated, with infinitesimal variations, while 
smoking his after-supper pipe in his chimney-corner. 

Thus, you see, human intercourse may be carried on in these 
parts of the earth with a moderate expenditure of words. 

Gervase Eickman went his way pondering upon the shep- 
herd and his flock. How foolishly helpless and helplessly fool- 
ish the bleating innocent-faced sheep looked, as they blundered 
aimlessly out of the road, one blindly following the next in 
front with such lack of purpose that the wonder was that here 
and there a solitary sheep should have sufficient intellect to 
strike on a fresh path and mislead his fellows. And how ab- 
ject they were to the superior intellect and volition of the dog; 
how tumultuously they fled before him, thus involving them- 
selves in fresh disorder; how tamely they yielded to his be- 
hests, when so small an exercise of will on the part of each 
might have baffled him, in spite of his terrible fangs; above 
all, how like, how very like the mass of mankind, “ the com- 
mon herd,” as they were so aptly called, they seemed to his 
musing fancy! 

With what a sheep-like fidelity do men follow the few who 
from time to time blunder upon original paths, how blindly 
do they pursue them to unknown goals, and how abjectly do 
multitudes permit themselves to be swayed by the will of one 
with sufficient daring, energy, and intellect to dominate them ! 
The mass needs a man, a strong personality, a powerful voli- 


THE EEPliOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


0 


tion to lead it; it bows to the strongest, to a Moses, a Caesar, \ 
a Gregory, a Charlemagne, a Cromwell or a Napoleon; de- 
mocracy is but the shadow of a shade — the aimless revolt of ' 
the aimless many against shackles that have been silently 
forged in the process of the ages — a revolt ending in the inco- 
herence of anarchy, weltering helplessly on till one is born 
strong enough to lead and create anew; then the centuries 
solder and cement his work; and give it a fleeting permanence, 
and thus a civilization is born. Or the centuries refuse their 
sanction, and the work slowly resolves itself again to chaos. 

So Gervase Kickman mused. 

But he was not of the herd; he would follow none. He felt 
within himself an intensity of purpose and a passion of concen- 
tration, together with a strength of intellect that must lift him 
. above his fellows. So he thought and mused, not knowing 
what ^yas within him and into what channels the current of his 
character would set; for he was young. 

He went on his way, still keeping to th^ dura, and thus still 
silently, for it was his habit to move with as little sound as 
possible, until the ground rose into so steep a mound that he 
was compelled to take the road. He was now approaching the 
end of the down-road, at the extremity of which, where the 
thorn hedge ended, there stood a little lonely hostelry in an / 
empty court-yard, fenced by a low stone wall. On one side of k 
the small inn was a tree, bending as usual to the north-east, and 1 
imparting that air of perfect loneliness which the presence of 
a single tree invariably gives to an isolated building. The inn 
proclaimed itself the Traveler '’s Best by a sign over its low 
porch and closed door. There were no flowers in the little 
court, though it faced the south; neither tree nor vegetable 
grew in the barren inclosure, which was tenanted solely by a 
large deer-hound stretched in a watchful attitude befdie the 
p^ch. 

TMr. Kickman did not look at the inn, though a side glance 
of his eyes took in the dog with a sparkle of satisfaction; 
while the dog on hearing his footsteps, which were also faintly 
audible to two women in an upper room, slightly pricked his 
ears and looked at him with an indifferent air, dropping his 
muzzle comfortably on to his fore-paws again when he had 
passed. 

Another road crossed the level down-road at right angles 
just beyond the solitary inn. Opposite the inn-front on the 
turf was a stagnant pond, the milky water of which was crisped 
to ripples by the keen wind, and in the angle formed by two 
roads stood a wooden sign-post. 


10 THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 

When he reached the sign-post, Gervase Eickman leaned 
against it with his back toward the inn, which was now some 
distance from him, and gazed over the broad expanse of level 
champaign to the dark hills, on the broken slopes of which the 
shadows were shifting. He did not appear to mind the wind, 
which caught him full in the side of the face, ruffled his hair, 
and obliged him to press his low felt hat more firmly over his 
brows; the sound it made among the withered stalks above 
the sward pleased him, and he mused and mused in the still- 
ness, an image of peaceful contemplation, with his refined 
features and look of quiet concentrated power. 

While he was thus musing, his quick ears caught the sound 
of footsteps in the distance behind him; but he did not turn 
his head, for the footsteps were those of a stranger and could 
not interest him, so he thought. They were the firm elastic 
steps of a man in the fiower of life, they smote the hard road 
with an even joyous rhythm, and were accompanied by the 
clear, cheery tones of a voice singing: 

‘“As we lay, all the day, 

In the Bay of Biscay, O!” 

Both song and footsteps penetrated to a quiet upper cham- 
ber in the inn, where two women sat together, one wasted with 
mortal sickness and wearing the unnatural rose of fever in her 
face, the other radiant with youth and health. The latter 
paused in her reading and looked up as the strain of manly 
song broke upon the quiet of the sick-room, the invalid^s face 
brightened, and she said it was a pleasant song. 

“It is a good voice, said the reader, “ and the voice of a 
gentleman. 

The singer went joyously on his way, and paused in his song 
when he saw the motionless figure at the foot of the sign-post. 
Gervase Eickman still gazed dreamily away over the valley to 
the dark hills. A man has but to purpose a thing strongly to 
gain his purpose, he was thinking; fate is but the shado\^of 
an old savage dream; a man^s life is in his own hands. In 
fancy he saw the flock of sheep driven on and on along the 
dusty highway by the shepherd, whose figure suggested all 
sorts of images to his mind, save .the august image of the 
Shepherd of mankind. 

“ To Medington four and a half miles,^^ was written on one 
of the arms of the sign-post above his head, and the pedestrian 
reading this, paused a moment and looked at the silent figure 
beneath, which with averted gaze appeared unconscious of his 
approach, He was not skilled in reading characteiv or he 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


11 


would have observed the look 6f strength and steadfast pur- 
pose on -the quiet face before him. 

Is this the only road to Medington?^'’ he asked. 

“ No; there are four/^ replied Eickman, facing about, but 
not meeting the level gaze of the stranger, as he replied to his 
salutation. 

“ W^hich takes me past Arden Manor asked the stranger, 
who looked as if he would enjoy a friendly chat. 

‘‘ Neither. 

“ Surely that is Arden Mapor I saw lying beneath the down 
by the church as I came along?^^ 

‘‘Yes.^^ 

“ An old gentleman named Eickman lives there, 1 think; a 
queer old dry-as-dust of a fellow, who collects antiquities. 

“A Mr. Eickman, F.E.S., lives there, replied Gervase, 
with a dry smile; “ he also collects beetles. You are perhaps 
a brother naturalist or antiquary?^^ 

“ I know a beetle from a butterfly and that^s about all,^^ he 
said. “No; I was to go over the downs from Oak well and 
meet a friend by Arden Manor on the road to Medington. I 
have evidently gone wrong. 

“No; you are quite right. If you keep straighten you 
will come to Arden Cross at the foot of the hill. For Arden 
Manor you turn to the left, but that takes you away from 
Medington. Turn up the lane to the right, and you go direct 
over the downs to Medington, or straight on by the high-road 
you get to Medington. 

“ Paul meant Arden Cross,^^ reflected the stranger aloud. 
“ Thank you. I remember the down path now, that ^ the 
short cut. Can you help me to a light? This wind is too 
much for matches.^’ 

Gervase opened his jacket, and in the shelter thus made the 
stranger, stooping, for he was tall, struck a match and lighted 
a short pipe, thus giving the other the opportunity of a close 
and unobserved scrutiny of his face in the glow of the match. 
It was a dark, healthy, well-favored face, on the whole the 
kind of face that goes to the heart of every woman, old or 
young. 

“A good-looking fool,^^ thought Gervase, consigning him 
mentally to the herd of mankind. “ Edward Annesley, no 
doubt; an officer, by his mustache and swagger. 

He was wrong about the swagger: though the stranger 
walked like a soldier. Having lighted his pipe, the officer, 
thanking him for his courtesy, went on his way down the hill, 
and was lost to sight before' the sound of his footsteps ceased 


12 


THE EEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


to ring upon the hard road, Rickman looking after him with 
a superior sort of smile, until the sound of other steps ap- 
proaching from behind stirred every hber within him and 
lighted a flame in his veiled gray eyes. On came the steps, 
swift, light, and even, very different from the soldier^s firm 
strides, though telling like them of youth, health, and a light 
heart; yet Gervase, for all the stir of feeling they evoked within 
him, appeared to take no notice of them, but continued his 
rapt contemplation of the shadowed hill -slopes, brightened 
now by long moted shafts of light from the sinking sun, around 
which the clouds were breaking away in beautiful glory as the 
keen wind stilled itself more and more in shifting to a warmer 
quarter. 

A voice soon accompanied the light footsteps, echoing in a 
woman ^s round, clear notes, the soldier ^s song: 

“ There we lay, all the day, 

In the Bay of Biscay, O!” 

At this point Mr. Rickman left the post against which he 
had so long been leaning, and strolled quietly on without turn- 
ing his head, while the singer, who made rapid progress, re- 
peated her snatch of song, and the hound, which had j3een 
lying before the inn door, flew before and around her in widen- 
ing sweeps, all the grace and strength of its lithe, slender body 
showing to the utmost advantage, until it included Gervase in 
its gyrations, whereupon he turned and waited, while a tall 
young woman came up with him. 

“ I thought you would never see me, Gervase, she said. 

What deadly schemes were you meditating under the sign- 
post 

“I was watching the weather, ^Mie replied; “the wind is 
chopping round; we shall have a change. Where have you 
been?^^ 

“With Ellen Gale; I am glad for her sake the wind is 
changing, the east wind is so bad for her.'’^ 

She came between Gervase and the setting sun, which grew 
more radiant each moment, and now sent forth a dazzling 
mesh of golden rays to tangle themselves in the short growth 
of curling hairs roughed by the wind from her rich plaits be- 
neath, thus forming, a saint-like halo around the face of Alice 
Lingard, a face distinguished by that indefinable charm., which 
is the very essence of beauty, and yet is often wanting in the 
most perfect features. It was a charm which went to the very 
heart of the young man walking by her side, and yet which he 
could not describe; he knew only that it was lacking to every 


THE REPEOACH OF ANNESLEY* 


13 


other face he had ever seen; he knew also that it was not given 
to every one to discover that hidden grace. For each face has 
its own charm, the magic of which has different power over 
different people, and enchants many or few, according to its 
own intrinsic potency. 

The two walked on together at Aliceas brisker pace, talking 
with the unconstraintof familiar friends; Alice involved in the 
glory of the warm sun-rays, while a deeper rose bloomed in 
her face as the fresh air touched it, and her blood warmed 
with the exercise; Gervase, for the most part, listening and 
monosyllabic. 

^ They passed a large deserted chalk quarry, its steep cliff- 
sides looking ghost-like, save where a stray sunbeam shot its 
long gold luster upon them, and then they came round the 
shoulder of the down and saw, nestling beneath it, a church 
with a low, square, gray tower and a gabled stone house shel- 
tered from the south-west by a row of weather-beaten Scotch 
firs; lower down along the valley ran a straggling village, all 
thatch and greenery. Then they left the chalk, and dipped 
into a deep sandy lane with steep banks and overhanging 
hedges, and here in sheltered nooks primroses were looking 
shyly forth, and violets were pushing tiny buds to the light. 

“ Not a violet is out yet,” said Alice. 

This was the moment of Gervase^s triumph. He took from 
a deep pocket a something carefully folded in a leaf, and, un- 
covering it, presented to his companion, with a quiet smile, a 
little posy of white violets, pink tipped, and set in a gleaming 
circle of leaves. 

She took it with an exclamation of pleasure, and lifted it to 
her fresh face to inhale its delicate fragrance. “ To think 
that you should find the first!” she said, half jealously. 

He was in the seventh heaven, but said nothing. He had 
secretly watched the budding of those violets for a week, and 
walked far and quickly to gather them for her that afternoon, 
and now he had his reward in seeing her caress the flowers and 
talk of them for a good five minutes, till the sound of hoofs 
along the lane behind them made her look up. 


CHAPTEE II. 

FIRE-LIGHT. 

The rapid beat of hoofs and the roll of wheels drew nearer 
and nearer, and a dog-cart drawn by a serviceable cob flashed 
down the hill toward the pedestrians w^th many a scattered 
pebble and spark of fire, for the dusk w^s now falling. 


14 


THE REPROACH OP AKNESLEY. 


On reaching them, the driver pulled the cob sharply up on 
his haunches, gave the reins to tlie groom, sprung to the 
ground, all in a flash of time, and was shaking hands with 
Gervase and Alice, and walking by their side almost before 
they had time to recognize him. Alice gave him a frank smile 
of welcome, and Gervase smiled too, but he murmured some- 
thing inaudibly to himself that was not flattering to the new- 
comer. 

The latter was a young man, with a dark, strong, intelligent 
face, which had just missed being handsome. He walked 
well, dressed well, and had about him a certain air which 
would have challenged attention anywhere. He did not look 
like a parish doctor. 

And how are they all at Arden he asked, in a full, cor- 
dial voice. “ Where did you get those violets? It is enough 
to make a man sad. See here, I thought these were the first. 
And he drew a second little bunch of white violets from his 
breast-pocket and gave them to Alice, who received them with 
another frank smile. 

“ How kind of you to think of me!^^ she said. Gervase 
found these, but he was only five minutes ahead of you. 

Gervase smiled inwardly; the new-comer ^s face darkened, 
and he silently returned the rude observation the former had 
made upon him a moment before, and then comforted himself 
by the reflection: “ Gervase .is nobody.'’^ 

‘‘ So you have been visiting my patients again. Miss Lin- 
gard,^^ he said aloud; ‘‘ you must not go about making people 
well in this reckless way. How are we poor doctors to live?^'’ 

“ Did you find Ellen any better ?^^ she asked. 

“ She was wonderfully perked up, as the cottagers say; I 
knew you had been there, without any telling. We must try 
to get her through the spring winds. 1 say, Rickman, you 
haveiiT seen such a thing as a stray cousin anywhere about, 
have you?’"’ 

‘‘ 1 did catch sight of such an article half an hour since, 
he replied. He asked me the way to Medington by Arden 
Manor, where one Paul, it appeared, had agreed to meet him.^^ 
“ A tall, good-looking fellow with a pleasant face — 

“ And a beautiful voice, interrupted Alice. “ It must be 
the gentleman I heard singing past the Traveler's Rest, Ger- 
vase. I was just going to ask if you had seen him.’’"’ 

“ He sings like a nightingale. Yes; that was no doubt Ted. 
Oh! you will all like him. I shall bring him over to the 
Manor, if I can. I doiiT say if I may,^^ he added, with a 
smile. 


THE REPKOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


15 


Because you know we are always pleased to see your 
friends,^ ^ returned Gervase. But your cousin is an old 
friend of ours, Annesley, and evidently remembered us. He 
asked if a queer old fellow named Rickman lived in Arden 
Manor down there. 

“ The rascal! Did you tell him he was speaking to the 
queer old fellow^s son?^'' 

‘‘ Not I. I wanted to hear what he should say about us.'’^ 

‘‘ What a shame said Alice; “those are the bad under- 
hand ways Sibyl and 1 are always trying to overcome in you. 
Well, Doctor Annesley, here is Arden Cross, but no cousin ap- 
parently.'’^ - 

“ He would be well over St. Michaels Down by this time,” 
added Gervase. “ But who is this, coming down the lane?” 

Two figures emerged from the deeply shadowed fane which 
led from the down to the paler dusk of the cross-roads, and 
discovered themselves to be an elderly laboring-man and a 
youth, both clad in fustian, who touched their hats and then 

, miss; evening, sir. Ben up hoam, dacter? Poor 
)le bad ^s marning,” said the elder, who was no 
other than the host of the Traveler's Rest, Jacob Gale. 

“ Ellen was better,” replied the doctor, cheerfully. 

“Oh! yes; she was really quite bright when I saw her. 
Gale,” added Alice, in a still more encouraging voice. 

The man shook his head. “ She wonT never be better,” 
he grovvled, “ though she med perk up a bit along of seeing 
you, miss. IVe a zin too many goo that way to be took in, 
bless your heart. How long do ye give her, dacter? I baint 
in no hurry vur she to goo, as I knows on,” he added, with a 
view to contradict erroneous impressions. 

The doctor replied that it was impossible to say; she might 
linger for months, or she might go that night. 

“ They all goos the zame way,” continued the man, “ one 
after toother, nothun caint stop ^em. There was no pearter 
mayde about than our Eln a year ago come Middlemass, a 
vine-growed mayde she was as ever I zeen,” he repeated in a 
rough voice, through which the very breath of tragedy sighed; 
“ zing she '’ood like a thrush, and her chakes like a hrose. A 
peart mayde was our Eln, I warnt she was.” 

“ She is very haj)py; she is willing to go,” said Alice, try- 
ing to comfort him. 

“Ah! they all gooS off asy. My missus she went fust; a 
vine vigure of a ooman, too. Vive on ^eni lies down Ohurch- 
iytton ther^ Miss Lingard^ and all in brick graves, buried 


stopped. 

“ Evening 
Eln was terl 


16 


THE KEPROACH OE ANHESLEY. 


comfortable. TheyVe got to goo and they goos. Hreuben 
here, hem’ll hae to go next. There^s the hred in chakes, and 
he coughs terble aready. 

Eeuben smiled pensively; he was a handsome lad, with dark 
eyes and a delicate yet brilliant pink-and- white complexion. 

^ Nonsense,^’ interposed Paul. ‘‘Eeuben^s wel] enough. 
You sht)uldn^t frighten the boy. Gale. Give him good food, 
and his cough will soon go. Don’t you believe him, Eeuben. 
You are only growing fast. ” 

“ He’ll hae to goo long with t’others,” continued the father; 
“dacters ain’t no good agen a decline. A power of dacter’s 
stuff ben inside of they that’s gone. They’ve all got to goo, 
all got to goo. ” 

“ Eeckon I’ll hae to goo,” added Eeuben, in a more cheer- 
ful refrain to his father’s melancholy chant. 

Alice tried in vain to reason the pair into a more hopeful 
frame of mind, and then scolded them, and finally bid them 
good-night, and they parted, the heavy boots of the two Gales 
striking the road in slow funereal beats as they trudged 
wearily uphill, the lighter steps of the gentlefolk making swift 
and merry music downward. 

‘‘ Oh, jPaulI” said Alice, turning to him after a backward 
glance at the father and son, we must save Eeuben; we can 
not let him die!” 

“ My dear Alice, you must not take all the illness in the 
parish to heart,” interposed Gervase; “ the boy will be all 
right, as Annesley told him. Why try to deprive Gale of his 
chief earthly solace? The old fellow revels in his own miseries. 
It is a kind of distinction to that class of people to have a fatal 
disease in their family.” 

“ Hereditary too,” added Paul; as respectable as a fam- 
ily ghost in higher circles. ” 

“ Qr the curse of Gledesworth. I am glad the curse does 
not blight the tenants as well as the landlord,” continued Ger- 
vase. For Arden Manor belonged to the Gledesworth estate; 

Or the Mowbray temper,” laughed Paul. “ Nay, dear 
Miss Lingard, do not look so reproachful. 1 am doing my 
best for Eeuben. But he is consumptive, and I doubt if he 
will stand another winter, though his lungs are still whole. 
We must try to accept facts. Why, we poor doctors would be 
fretted to fiddle-strings in a month if we did not harden our 
hearts to the inevitable.” 

“ But is this inevitable?” asked Alice, with an earnest gaze 
into his dark-blue eyes that set his heart throbbing. “ Need 
this bright young life be thrown away? I know how good your 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


17 


heart is, and how you often feel most when you speak most 
roughly. But if Reuben were Gervase, you know that he 
would not have to die.-” 

“You mean that I should order Gervase to the south. 
Doubtless. ” 

“ Very well. And if we set our wits to work we may ex- 
patriate Reuben. We must. Gervase, you are great at 
schemes. Scheme Reuben into a warm climate before next 
winter.-’^ 

“We have received our orders, Annesley,” replied Gervase, 
laughing, as they turned up a broad lane, at the end of which 
the gray manor house, with its gables and mullioned windows, 
loomed massive in the dusk — a dusk deepened on one side by 
the row of wind-bowed firs. 

Paul accompanied them, as a matter of course, though he 
had turned quite out of his homeward way; while his servant, 
without asking or receiving orders, drove the dog-cart round 
to the stable-yard, whither the cob would have found his way 
alone, so accustomed was he to its welcome hospitality. 

Through the gate-way, with its stone piers topped by stone 
globes, and up the drive bounded by the velvet turf of a cent- 
ury^s growth, the three walked in the deepening dusk, and 
saw a ruddy glow in the uncurtained windows of the hall, 
round the porch of which myrtle grew mingled with ivy and 
roses. Gervase opened the door, and they entered a spacious 
hall wainscoted in oak, carved about the door-ways and the 
broad chimney - piece, beneath which, on the open hearth, 
burned a fire of wood. The leaping flames danced merrily on 
the polished walls; on a broad staircase shining and slippery 
with bees'-wax and the labor of generations; on a few old pict- 
ures, some trophies of armor and some oaken settles and 
chairs of an old quaint fashion; and upon a table near the 
hearth, on which a tea-service was set out. 

An elderly lady sat by the fire, knitting and occasionally 
talking, for want of a better listener, to a cat sitting bolt up- 
right in front of the fire, into which it stared, as if inquiring 
of some potent oracle, and sometimes turning its head with a 
blissful wink in response to its mistresses voice. This lady 
was small and slight, with a rosy, unwrinkled face and gray 
hair, and^n expression so innocent and sweet as to be almost 
child-like, yet she resembled Gervase sufficiently to prove her- 
self his mother. Mrs. Rickman^s grammar was hazy and her 
spelling uncertain; she was not sure if metaphysics were a 
science or an instrument; she habitually couftesied to the new 
moon, and did nothing important on a Friday (which some- 


18 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


times caused serious domestic inconvenience); but her man- 
ners were such as immediately put all who addressed her at 
their ease, and her pleasant uncritical smile encouraged, even 
invited, people to tell her their troubles and confess their mis- 
doings. 

“ Come, children, she said, cheerily, rising when the door 
opened to busy herself at the table, “ here is tea just made. 
What, Paul? I did not see you in the dusk. We have not 
seen you for an age, three days at least. Gervase, throw me 
on a fresh log, my dear.^^ 

“We certainly deserve no tea at this time of night, said 
Alice, who was busy laying aside her hat and furs. “ Come, 
Hubert, leave the doctor alone and lie down by Puss.-^^ 

The deer-hound, who had been fawning on Paul, stretched 
himself on the rug on one side of the fire, not daring to take 
the middle, since Puss disdained to move so much as a paw to 
make way for the new-comer. 

Alice took the chair Gervase placed for her, and began 
showing Mrs. Rickman her two bunches of violets, one of 
which she put in water, and the other (Paul observed with a 
thrill that it was his) in her dress, where the soft rise and fall 
of her breath rocked it in an unconscious Elysium. 

“ And where are Mr. Rickman and Sibyl ?^^ he asked, flush- 
ing with a secret joy, while Gervase was deeply pondering the 
disposition of the violets, and persuading himself that his 
bunch was the more cherished, since it was secured from fad- 
ing, and yet not quite sure on the point. 

“ Sibyl is at the parsonage practicing with the choir, said 
Mrs. Rickman. “ Mr. Rickman is on the downs examining 
some barrows which have just been opened, and no one knows 
when he will be back. Alice, my dear child, what a fearful 
state your hair is in!^^ 

Alice put up her hands with a futile attemj)t to smooth the 
rich braids, which were roughened into little rings on the sur- 
face by the wind. 

“ Never mind, auntie, she replied. “ Doctor Annesley 
will forgive me this once, and you and Gervase are used to it. 
And it doesnT matter in the fire-light.-’^ 

“ That is how Alice abuses our long-sufiering,^^ growled 
Gervase, thinking how pretty the tumbled hair was, in which 
Paul agreed silently with him. 

“ Miss Lingard is quite right about the fire-light, said 
Paul, in his stately manner. ‘ ‘ An elegant negligence suits 
best with this informal meal in the dusk. Yes, if you for- 
give my saying so, Alice, you make a delightful picture on 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLET. 


19 


that quaint settle, with the hound at your knee, and the armor 
above your head, and the hearth blazing beneath that splendid 
old chimney near/ ^ 

He did not add what he thought, t-hat the grace with which 
she sat half reclined in the cross-legged oaken seat, and the 
sweet expression of lier face lighted by the varying flames, 
made the chief charm of the picture. 

“ Doctor Annesley,^^ replied Alice, meeting his gaze of 
earnest and respectful admiration, “ you are becoming a court- 
ier. I do not recognize my honest old friend, Paul, with his 
blunt but wholesome rebuffs.-’^ 

“ It is I who am rebuffed now,^^ he replied, singularly dis- 
composed by the gravity of her manner. 

‘‘ Nonsense, Paul,^^ interrupted Mrs. Rickman; “ Alice can 
only be honored by such a pretty compliment. You ought to 
be of Gervase^s profession.^’ 

Yes; I always maintained that Annesley would make a 
first-rate lawyer,” added Gervase. 

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Annesley, with a fervor that 
was almost religious. 

Gervase laughed and rose to settle a half-burned log which 
threatened to fall when burned asunder, thus ruining a fire- 
landscape that Alice had been dreamily gazing upon. * 

“ How cruel you are — you Jiave shattered the most romantic 
vision of crags and castles!” she said. “And you have de- 
stroyed the poetry: of the hour, for I must light these can- 
dles.” 

“ Were you seeing your future in the fire?” Paul asked, as 
he lighted the candles she brought forward, thrillijig with deli- 
cate emotion when he touched her hand accidentally, and 
caught the play of the newly kindled flame on her features. 

Gervase watched them narrowly, though furtively, with a 
secret pity for Paul, for a vision less keen than his might de- 
tect a total absence of response on her part to the young doc- 
tor’s unspoken feeling; and then he thought of his own future, 
which he read in the dull red glow of the fire, while the others 
kept up a desultory conversation in which their thoughts did 
not enter. 

He had drifted, he scarcely knew how, into the office of 
Whewell & Son, solicitors. His mind in those early days had 
taken no bent sufficiently strong to make him resist his father’s 
desire that he should follow law, since he declined the paternal 
profession of physic, a profession which Mr.- Rickman, a Lon- 
don physician with a fair practice, had early left because he 
said he could not endure the whims of sick people, but really 

j 


20 


THE REPROACH OF AKHESLEY. 


because, having a competency, he wished to pursue his favorite 
studies in the quiet of Arden, where Sibyl was born when Ger- 
vase was about nine years old. 

But once in the office, he found much to interest him, and 
after making progress from a desire to do his duty and please 
his parents, whose hopes all rested on their only son, ambition 
awoke in him, and he decided to make himself the head of the 
firm, and the firm the head of the profession in the county. 
This, at eight-and-twenty, he had accomplished. Whewell & 
Son was now Whewell & Rickman. The younger Whewell 
had renounced a profession that wearied him, and the elder 
was at an age when love of ease is stronger than love of power, 
and it was well known that the junior partner was the soul of 
the business, which daily increased. 

As far as a country solicitor could rise, Gervase Rickman in- 
tended to rise, and then he intended to enter Parliament, where 
he felt his powers would have an opportunity of developing. 
This purpose he had as yet confided to no one, though he was 
daily feeling his way and laying the foundations of local popu- 
larity. A man who makes himself once heard in the House 
of Commons has, he knew, providing he possesses the genius 
of a ruler of men, a destiny more brilliant than that of any 
soverqjgn in the civilized world, and Gervase, looking at the 
consuming brands and listening to the harmonious blending of 
PauPs deep voice with Aliceas pure treble, saw such magnifi- 
cent prospects as the others did not dream him capable of en- 
tertaining. And through all those princely visions Alice 
moved with an imperial grace. 

“ But what has become of your cousin all this time?^^ Alice 
was asking of the doctor. 

Over the downs and in Medington by this time. We donT 
dine till half past seven, so my mother will have a good hour 
to purr over the fellow and make much of him. Ned always 
was a lucky fellow, if you remember, Mrs. Rickman. He had 
the knack of making friends. 

‘"He was a winning and well-behaved boy, 1 remember,^^ 
she replied. “ How fond Sibyl was of him!^^ 

“ It is just the same now, or rather it was at school. What- 
ever Ned did, people liked him. If he neglected his lessons, 
he always got off in class by means of lucky shots. Other fel- 
lows^ shots failed. Born under a happy star.^^ 

“ Yet he must inherit the curse of Gledesworth,^^ Alice said. 

“Oh! that is at an end. Reginald Annesley being in a 
lunatic asylum fulfills the conditions of the distich: 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLET. 


21 


“ ‘ Whanne ye lorde ys mewed in stoneu celle, 

Gledes worth thanne shalle brake hjs spelle.’ ” 

“ Facts seem against the theory/^ Gervase said, since the 
estate can not now pass from Reginald Annesley to his son. 
By the way, have you not heard, Paiil.^ Young Reginald is 
dead, killed while elephant-hunting in South Africa?’^ 

“ Captain Annesley? Reginald? Dead?^^ cried Paul, with 
excitement. ‘‘We heard he was in Africa, and his wife and 
baby came home. Are you sure? Is it not some repetition 
of poor Julianas story ?^’ 

“It is perfectly true,^’ replied Gervase, who was agent to 
the Gledesworth estate; “ the news arrived yesterday.’^ 

Paul Annesley^s father was first cousin to the Annesley who 
owned the estate, and who was only slightly acquainted with 
him. Paul did not even know any of those Annesleys, and the 
mad Annesley having had three sons, one of whom was mar- 
ried, and all of whom had grown to manhood, the prospect of 
inheriting the family estates had never entered his wildest 
dreams. But now only two lives stood between him and that 
rich inheritance; the life of an elderly maniac and that of an 
infant. No one knew better than he how large a percentage 
of male infants die. 

“ It is awfully sad,^^ he said. “Oh! it does seem as if the 
curse was a reality, and worked still. 

“ I never believed in the curse, said Mrs. Rickman; “ and 
I disbelieve it still. People die when the Almighty sees fit; it 
is not for us to ask why.'’^ 

But Alice was a firm believer in the curse of Gledesworth, 
and defended its morality stoutly. Why, if blessings attached 
to birth, should not pains and penalties? she asked. Was it 
worse to be a doomed Annesley than the offspring of a crim- 
inal or the inheritor of fatal disease, like the family at the 
Traveler's Rest? 

“ I think I would rather be an Annesley, she added, turn-^ 
ing to Paul with a smile that seemed to reach the darkest re- 
cesses of his heart, and kindle a glow of vital warmth within 
him. 

Then they fell to discussing the Gledesworth legend. In the 
days of King John a lord of Gledesworth died, leaving one 
young son, and his brother, not content with seizing the lands, 
drove the widow and orphan from his door. One day in the 
hard winter weather, the widow appeared in want at the 
usurper's gates and begged bread for the starving child. And 
because she was importunate, the wicked baron set his hounds 
upon them and they killed the heir. Then the widow cursed 


22 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


the cruel baron, fled into the forest and was seen no more. 
But from that hour Gledesworth lands never descended to the 
eldest son; so surely as a man owned Gledesworth, sorrow of 
some kind befell him; the land was a curse to its owner, as 
was the Nibelungen Hoard to whomsoever possessed it. 

The morally weak point in the curse, as Gervase often ob- 
served, when beguiled to discuss the tragic stories of that fated 
line, was that there appeared to be no chance of expiating the 
wicked baron^s misdeeds, while the number of innocent vic- 
tims who suffered from the curse was appalling. 

You are a hardened skeptic,^^ Paul said. “ Besides, you 
forget the ‘ stonen celle.’ 

“ Worse still. Because no owner of Gledesworth likes to 
exchange it for a stone cell, are all his descendants to be 
doomed?^^ 

“ You can not measure a retribution which for good and for 
ill extends into the infinite, by the events of a rudimentary and 
finite world, Alice said. 

“ Quite so,’^ replied Paul; I confess to a great affection 
for the family curse. It keeps the idea of God before meiPs 
minds, though only a God of retribution,’^ an observation 
which cheered Mrs. Eickman’s kind heart, troubled as it was 
by sad rumors of Annesley’s skepticism, and led on to a dis- 
cussion in which they all lost themselves in the old inter- 
minable puzzles of the origin of Evil, the limits of Fate and 
the bounds of Will, till the hall clock gave musical warning oi 
the hour, and Paul took hasty leave, finding himself belated. 

When he was gone, Alice drew a chair to her adopted 
mother’s side, and began to tell her what she had done all the 
afternoon, and was duly scolded for various lapses of memory. 
She had lived in that house from her thirteenth year, being an 
orphan placed there by her guardians, that she Rnd Sybil 
might benefit from each other’s society, and they had studied 
and grown up together so happily, that Alice hoped, on be- 
coming the mistress of her own little fortune, a year hence, to 
remain with them. 

Stay a minute, Alice,” Gervase said, when a few minutes 
later she was about to -follow Mrs. Rickman upstairs. ‘‘If 
you are not tired, I should like you to let me rehearse my 
speech for the Liberal meeting next week.” 

Alice willingly acquiesced, but asked if it would not be bet- 
ter to wait for Sibyl’s return. 

He laughed, and said that Sibyl had already been treated to 
two rehearsals; so Alice took up her station in the corner of 
the hall furthest from the staircase, which Gervase ascended 


THE EEPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


23 


till he reached the landing, behind the balustrade of which he 
stood beneath a lamp and looked down into the wide, echoing 
hall, the dark paneling of which was but faintly lighted by a 
swinging lamp in its center, and by the fitful fire-glow. Alice 
was scarcely seen; but not a gesture or look of Gervase could 
escape her, and she was surprised when, taking a roll of notes 
from his pocket and striking an attitude, his form dilated, his 
eyes kindled as they took a commanding glance of the wide 
space before him, and he sent his voice, which was in conversa- 
tion harsh, echoing through the hall with a power which she 
had never suspected, and invested the political commonplaces 
which he uttered with a certain dignity. The cat sprung up 
in alarm; Hubert rose and sat listening at his mistresses feet 
with a critical air; Alice clapped her hands and cried: ‘‘ Hear, 
heariee and “ No, nol^^ at intervals, for a good half hour. 
Then the door opened, and Sibyl returned from her choir 
practice and made an addition to the audience. 

“ And did you ever hear such rubbish in your life, SibyH^e 
Alice asked, laughing. 

“ No,'^ she replied, “ I was never at a political meeting be- 
fore."^ 


CHAPTER III. 

SHADOWS. 

Edw^ard Ahhesley, finding no trace of his cousin at Arden 
Cross, took the path indicated to him over the next link in the 
chain of downs, dismissing Gervase Rickman from his mind 
with a dim momentary remembrance of having seen and dis- 
liked him before. 

Thus every day we pass men and women whose hearts leap 
and ache like our own, taking no more count of them than of 
the stones along our path, though any one of these may turn 
the current of our destiny and alter our very nature. 

Perhaps this sturdy pedestrian did not think of anything; ‘ 
most likely he rejoiced unconsciously in the keen live air of 
the downs, the sense of the infinite which moving on a height 
affords, the splendor of the shifting clpuds, through which the 
setting sun was now breaking — touching Alice Lingard\s face 
with a fresh glamour, as she walked unknown to Annesley by 
the side of the man whose pulses her presence so deeply stirred 
—and in the once-familiar but half-forgotten landscape, with 
its limits of hill and sea, its lake-like sheet of slate roofs down 
in the hollow where the confluence of two slow streams formed 
the River Mede. The lake of blue roofs, brooded over by a 


24 


THE KEPROACH OP ANNESLEY. 


dim cloud of misty smoke, out of which, slim and spirit-like, 
rose the tall white church tower, its western face touched by 
the sun^s fleeting glow, was Medington, the old familiar town 
in which he had passed many a school-boy’s holiday. 

All was now familiar: the furze in which he and Paul once 
killed snakes and looked for rabbit-holes; the copses where 
they gathered nuts and blackberries; the heathy waste re- 
nowned for whortleberries, and the hamlet with the stone 
bridge over its mirror-like stream, widening into a pond at the 
foot of the down, which fell there in an abrupt steep, down 
which the cousins had made many a rapid descent, toboggan- 
ing in primitive fashion. There stood the mill with its under- 
shot wheel; the plaintive cry of the moor-hen issued from the 
dry sedge rustling in the March wind; all sorts of long-forgot- 
ten objects appeared and claimed old acquaintance with him. 
The chimes of the church clock came floating through the dim 
gray air like a friendly voice from far-off boyhood, and, after 
a little musical melancholy prelude, struck six deep notes. 

Without thinking, he took the old accustomed footpath 
through the fields by the stream, and began singing some 
snatch of old • song, forgotten for years. ‘°Dear old Paul!’^ 
he mused. Is he as unchanged as these fields.^” He knew 
that was impossible; for the lads had spent a couple of years 
together at a French school, and had met several times in 
their manhood. 

It was pleasant to find himself in the clean, wind-swept 
streets of the little town, where the lamps were every moment 
showing tiny points of yellow fire in the dusk, and the shop- 
windows were casting pale and scant radiance upon the almost 
deserted pavement; for even in the High Street the quiet town 
showed few passengers at this hour, and little was heard save 
the cries of children at play, and the occasional rumble of a 
cart and still more occasional roll of a carriage. Ho one 
.knows what becomes of the inhabitants of small country towns 
when they are not going to church or to market; the houses 
stand along the streets, but rarely give any sign of life; the 
shops offer their mechandise apparently in vain. 

He stopped before a large red-brick house, draped with 
graceful hangings of Virginia creeper, now a mass of bare 
brown branches rattling dryly in the wind; a house which 
withdrew itself, as if in aristocratic exclusiveness, some yards 
back from the line of houses rising flush on the street, and was 
fenced from intruders in a high iron railing, behind which a 
few evergreens ^rew half stifled by the thick coating of dust 
upon their shining leaves. There were three doors^ one on 


THE REPROACH OE AHHESLEY. 


2b 


each side, and one approached by a flight of steps in the mid- 
dle; on one of the side doors the word “ Surgery,^'’ was paint- 
ed, and upon the railings was a brass plate, with Paul An- 
nesley. Surgeon, etc.,^^ engraved upon it. 

He was admitted by the central door into a large hall oc- 
cupying the whole depth of the house, and having a glass 
garden-door on its opposite side. He had scarcely set foot 
within it when a door on his right opened, and from its com- 
parative darkness there issued into the radiance of the lamp- 
lighted hall a tall and stately woman, with snow-white hair 
and large bright blue eyes. Save her snowy hair, she showed 
no sign of age; her step was elastic, her figure erect as a dart. 

“ How do you do. Aunt Eleanor?^’ said Edward, going up 
to her and kissing the still blooming cheeks offered for his 
salute. ‘‘ I missed Paul, as you see. How well you are look- 
ing!- 

Mrs. Annesley held his hands and looked into his face with 
a seraphic smile, while she replied to his salutations, and said, 
with formal cordiality: 

“ Welcome, dear nephew, welcome to our dwelling. Paul 
should have been here to ‘ i, but his medical duties 



have doubtless detained 


know what martyrs to 


duty medical men are. You may remember your dear uncle^s 
life with its constant interruptions. 

“ Yes, I remember,^'’ returned Edward, not dreaming that 
his cousin^s medical duties at that moment consisted in drink- 
ing tea in the fire-light and talking to a most attractive 
young woman. “ I suppose you never know when to expect 
Paul.^" 

“ Never, she said, taking Edward^s arm and walking with 
a slow step and rustling dress into the drawing-room, which 
was darkened by heavy curtains in the windows, and was only 
lighted by the fitful gleam of the fire. Indeed, my life would 
be very sad and solitary but for the happiness it gives me to 
think that my dearest child is of so much use to his fellow- 
creatures. That, dear Edward, is my greatest consolation,^’ 
and Mrs. Annesley sunk with the air of a saintly empress or 
imperial saint upon her throne-like arm-chair by the fire, and 
sighed softly and smiled sweetly as she arranged the white 
satin strings of her delicate cap, which bore but a traditional 
resemblance to the widow’s cap she had long since discarded 
as unbecoming. 

Having dutifully placed a footstool for her, he took his seat 
on the opposite side of the fire, and began losing himself in 
admiration and wonder of his seraphic and dignified aunt just 


26 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


as he had done in his boyhood; indeed, something of his boy- 
hood ^s awe returned to him in the fascination of the presence. 

“She still sat as upright as in those days; neither arm-chair 
nor footstool were needed, save as adjuncts to her dignity. 
Every little detail of her dress showed the exactitude and finish 
that only women conscious of a power to charm bestow on 
such trifles: there was old rich lace in her cap and about her 
neck; a few costly jewels, old friends of Edward's, were in her 
dress; there was a ring on her hand, the diamonds in which 
caught the fire-light and broke it into a thousand tiny fierce 
flames; when she smiled, her well-formed lips showed a row 
of perfect pearls. She was an imposing, as well as a hand- 
some figure. 

Her nephew gazed earnestly at her for some time, while she 
went on in her smooth and gentle tones, asking after his 
mother and sisters, and telling him various little items of fam- 
ily news; while the fire-light played upon the soft richness of 
her dress, and drew sparkles from her eyes and her jewels, and 
threw her shadow, as if in impish mockery, distorted into the 
changing shapes of old witch-like women, on to the wall be- 
hind her. 

“ Well, aunt,''^ he said at last, ‘‘ 1 need not ask if you are 
well. You don^t look a day older than you used to. 1 have 
done nothing but admire you for the last ten minutes.'’^ 

“ So, sir,^ ' she returned, smiling, “ you have already learned 
the arts of your profession, and know how to flatter. Fy on 
you, to practice on your old aunt! And pray, how many 
young ladies have you bereaved of their hearts in this manner?^ ^ 
“ Eone,^^ he replied, laughing. “ I am not a lady-killer. 
I am put down as a slow fellow. 

Nay, my dear kinsman; I can not believe that the ladies 
of these days have such bad taste. You have grown into 
such a tall fellow, you remind me of my sainted husband.'’^ 

“ My mother thinks me like my uncle Walter, he replied, 
wondering by what process his lamented uncle had been canon- 
ized after death, since during his life his injured wife account- 
ed him the greatest of sinners; “u-n ugly likeness, she tells me 
with cruel candor. Here comes a carriage. Is it PauFs?^^ he 
added, going to the window and looking into the dimly lighted 
street. What a capital cob!'’^ 

The Admiral, as the cob was called, brought his rapid trot 
to a sudden end by sitting down on his haunches before the 
door, and in the same instant Paul leaped to the pavement and 
sprung up the steps with a rapidity which in some men would 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 27 

have been undignified, but in him only gave assurance of 
boundless vitality. 

Edward went to meet him, and led him into the room and 
with him a breath of the fresh night air and a suggestion of 
healthy manhood and out-of-door life. 

They met with less of the savage indifference which English- 
men usually think fit to assume to welcome their best friends; 
they shook hands more than once, and smiled. Paul even 
said that he was delighted to see his dear Ted, that it felt like 
old times to see his honest face, and that he hoped he would 
be able to extend the brief visit he purposed making; while 
Edward avowed that it did him. good to see his dear old Paul, 
and that he was glad to find the old fellow looking so jolly. 
Then they shook hands again, and the fire-light danced upon 
PauPs irregular features and dark, fiery-blue eyes, and brought 
into unusual prominence a white scar beneath his left eye. 

Edward remembered how Paul got that scar, and felt cold 
chills running over him. 

After one more mighty grasp of his cousin^s hand, Paul 
turned to his mother, who presented each cheek to him as she 
had done to Edward, and solemnly blessed him, as if he had 
been absent for months, or was at least a Spartan son return- 
ing with his shield rather than upon it. Then Paul inquired 
with an air of deep solicitude about various evil symptoms with 
which she appeared to have been afflicted in the morning, and 
was informed that all had happily yielded to treatment, save 
one. 

“ I still have that dreadful feeling of constriction across my 
eyes,^^ she said, in a tone of mournful resignation. 

‘^Have you, indeed?'’^ returned Paul, earnestly. “ Perhaps 
a little wine and your dinner may remove it. If not, 1 will 
give you a draught. I will take Ned at once to his room, and 
then we can dine without delay. 

Edward ^s surprise at finding his blooming aunt the victim of 
so many dreadful pains was forgotten in the lively chat of 
the dinner-table, as well as in the great satisfaction that meal 
afforded him after his long walk. 

Your renown has already preceded you, Edward,^ ^ Paul 
observed. “ Arden is already full of your arrival.'’^ 

‘‘ Arden? Why, I saw no soul there 

“ No? Have you forgotten the sign-post ?^^ 

“What! was that squint-eyed fellow an acquaintance of 
yours?^^ he asked. 

“ What do you think of that, mother, as a description of 
honest Gervase Kickman?^^ said Paul. 


28 


THE KEPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


“ You don^t mean to say that was Gervase Kickman?^^ ex- 
claimed Edward. ‘‘ 1 thought I had some faint remembrance 
of him. Heaven only knows what I said about his father! If 
he recognized me, why on earth couldn^t he say so?^^ 

“ He was not sure till he described you to me. By the way, 
mother, I forgot to say why I was late. I met Rickman, and 
had to turn in at Arden. 

It is thus that Love demoralizes: nothing else would have 
made Paul Annesley invent lies, especially useless ones. His 
mother looked amused at his demure face, then she glanced at 
Edward and laughed. 

“ And how loas dear Sibyl?^^ she asked, with satirical 
gravity. 

‘‘ Sibyl? oh! I believe she was very well. She was out. 
You remember little Sibbie, Ned?^^ Paul said, tranquilly. 

A little mischievous imp who was always teasing us? Oh! 
yes, I dare say I should scarcely recognize her now. Is she 
grown into a beauty ?^^ 

Are not all ladies beautiful?^ ^ returned Paul. ‘‘You 
shall go over and judge for yourself before long. I heard a 
sad piece of news at Arden, he continued; “ Captain Annes- 
ley is dead.^^ 

“ Who was he?’^ asked Edward, indilferently. “ There 
was an Annesley in the 100th Hussars; I never met him.^"’ 

Mrs. Annesley flushed deeply and said nothing for a few 
minutes. Paul looked at her, and the unspoken thought 
flashed from one to the other, This brings us very near the 
Gledesworth inheritance.-’^ 

‘‘ How very sad!^^ she said at last, in rather a hard ■\roice, 
while Paul bit his lips and then drank some wine, half ashamed 
at the interpretation of the swift glance. 

It is important that you should know who Captain Annes- 
ley was, Edward, he said after a minute, ‘‘because, after 
me, you are the next heir to the infant son he leaves. ” 

“ This is ghastly; the idea of my being your heir!^^ replied 
Edward, who was speedily enlightened as to the exact relation- 
ship, and properly refreshed on the subject of the half -forgot- 
ten legend, in which he apparently took but a languid inter- 
est, and the conversation presently drifted to other topics. 

After dinner Mrs. Annesley j^layed some sonatas, and Ed- 
ward sung some songs to her accompaniment till Paul, who 
had been up the night before, and in the open air all day, 
sunk into a sweet slumber. The other two sat chatting in low 
tones, Edward describing his life as an artillery officer in a sea- 
port town not far ofl, discussing his chances of promotion and 


THE REPKOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


29 


his next brother's progress at Woolwich, and hearing of Paul's 
position, which was not a happy one. Dr. Walter Annesley's 
partner, who had carried on the business since his death, un- 
luckily died soon after Paul began to practice with him, thus 
leaving Paul to make his way single-handed. Patients distrusted 
his youth and went to older men, so that things were not going 
as smoothly as could be wished, and the business scarcely paid 
Paul's personal expenses. So they chatted till the servants 
appeared, and Mrs. Annesley read prayers, first asking Paul if 
he felt equal to performing the task himself after his labors, 
which he did not. 

Come along and have a smoke,” said Paul, with alacrity, 
when his mother had bidden them good-night. “ I smoke in 
the consulting-room.” 

“ Why there?” asked Edward, doubtfully. 

Well! you see it is the only place. I dare not smoke any- 
where else. I tell the patients it insures them against infec- 
tion, and receive the old ladies in the dining-room. I was 
nervous about her reception of you. But I see you are in high 
favor. ” 

“ She seems perfectly angelic,” replied Edward, selecting a 
cigar from the box offered him. By the way, I had no idea 
she was in delicate health.” 

Paul laughed. “ I doubt if any woman in the three king- 
doms enjoys such brilliant health as my dear mother,” he re- 
plied, “but she is never happy without some fancied ailment. 
I give her a little colored water and a few bread-pills from 
time to time. ” 

He did not add that Mrs. Annesley's ailments were in an in- 
verse ratio to her amiability, and formed a good domestic 
barometer. 

Just then there was a tap at the door, and a soft voice said, 
“ May I come in?” 

“Certainly,” replied Paul in some trepidation, and his 
mother entered. 

“1 will not intrude, dear children,” she said; “I merely 
come to tell Edward on no account to rise for our early break- 
fast unless he feels quite rested, and to bring him this little 
gift of my working.” She vanished with a “ God bless you, 
dear boys,” before her nephew had time to thank her, after 
which both young men breathed more freely, and Edward took 
an embroidered velvet cap from his parcel. 

“ Poke the fire, Ned,” Paul said, cheerfully, when the door 
closed after her. Then he opened a closet where stood a skele- 
ton partially draped in a dressing-gown, which the- fleshless 


30 


THE REPKOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


arm, extended as if in declamation, threw hack from the 
ghastly figure, and crowned by a smoking-cap rakishly tipped 
on one side on its skull. “ Let^s be Jolly for once, ‘ have a 
rouse before the morn.^ He transferred the dressing-gown 
from the bare bones to his own , strong young shoulders, and 
the cap from the grinning skull to his dark-curled brow, be- 
neath which the cruel scar showed. Perhaps it was Edward^s 
fancy, excited by the suggestive revelation of the skeleton, 
which made the scar appear unusually distinct and livid; per- 
haps it was only the light. 

“ My aunt has made me a howling swell, he said, looking 
at the embroidered cap before he put it on. “ Awfully kind 
of her. 

“ She is kind,^^ commented Paul, his temporary gayety van- 
ishing as quickly as it came; “ no woman has a more heavenly 
disposition than my dear mother when free from those attacks, 
which are probably the result of some cerebral lesion. 

“Perhaps,’’^ Edward suggested, hopefully, “ she may grow 
out of them with advancing years. 

“ Perhaps,^-’ sighed Paul. But all the Mowbrays are the 
same, you know. It is in the blood. My uncle Palph Mow- 
bray was offended with my father once, and he laid awake at 
nights for six weeks concocting the most stinging phrases he 
could think of for a letter he wrote him. 1^11 show you that 
letter some day. 

Well! 1 hope it will never break out in you, Paul,^^ said 
Edward, incautiously. 

“ I, my dear fellow?^^ replied Paul, with his good-tempered 
smile; “ there is no fear for me. I am a pure-bred Annes- 
ley."" 

‘‘ Ah!^’ said Edward, and looking reflectively at the fire. 

‘‘ There has not been a serious explosion since Hew-year^s- 
eve,^^ continued Paul, clasping his hands above his head, and 
looking at the chimney-piece, which was adorned with a cen- 
ter-piece of a skull and cross-bones, flanked by several stetho- 
scopes and other mysterious and wicked-looking instruments, 
and above which was the smiling portrait of a lovely little girl, 
with a strong likeness to Mrs. Annesley. ‘‘You know how I 
valued the Parian Psyche of Thorwaldsen^s you gave me? She 
knew it, for she took it in both hands and dashed it on the 
hearth. 

Edward again felt cold chills creeping over him, and his 
gaze followed PauPs to the dimpled child-face he had loved, 
PauPs only sister Nelly, whose end had been so tragic. 

“ And what did you do?"^ he asked. 


THE KEPKOACH OF AHNESLEY. 


81 


“ Oh! I just sent the Crown Derby tea-service after it/^ 
feplied Paul, “ so pray clon^t notice the absence of either.’^ 

“ She valued the tea - service/’ said Edward, inwardly, 
thankful that the fiery Mowbray blood did not flow in his 
veins. 

“Imagine the smash,” said Paul, pensively. “And the 
deed was scarcely done when, with a tap at the door, in walks 
the vicar and stares aghast at the Lares and Penates shattered 
on the drawing-room hearth. My mother turns to him with 
the most heavenly smile and wishes him a Happy New-year. 
‘ And just see what that clumsy boy of mine has done,’ she 
adds, quietly, pointing to the fragments. ‘ Quite a genius for 
upsetting things, dear child. ’ 

“ ‘ I thought I heard something fall,’ replies the innocent 
vicar, quoting the lines about ‘ mistress of herself though China 
fall,’ and congratulating me on having a mother with such a 
sweet temper.” 

Edward mused for some time on the misery of his cousin’s 
life, a misery rarely alluded to by Paul himself, and any allu- 
sion to which on Edward’s part he would have deeply resented. 
He knew that the chain must be pressing heavily for him thus 
to disburden himself, and he suggested that he should marry 
and have a quiet home of his own; to which Paul replied, 
mournfully, that he was not. yet in a position to set up house- 
keeping. 

“ Though indeed — ” he added, and suddenly stopped. 

“Well?” 

“ It seems so brutal to build on a baby’s death,” he replied; 
“ and yet — ” 

“ It alters your position, Paul,” said Edward, “ and being 
sentimental about it won’t keep the baby alive.” 

“ True.” 

“ 1 think I may assume that the ‘ unexpressive She ’ has 
already been found,” Edward said, remembering the dark 
hints during dinner, and Paul smiled mysteriously. “ Per- 
haps I may meet her at Arden?” 

“ Who knows? But 1 have never yet spoken. I am not 
entitled by my prospects to do so. I don’t know if I have the 
smallest chance. And when you see her, Ned,” he added, 
with some hesitation, “ perhaps you will remember—” 

Edward burst out laughing and grasped his cousin’s hand. 

“ Don’t be afraid,” he replied, “1 am not a lady’s man; 
and if I were. Aphrodite herself would not tempt me to spoil 
other people’s little games.” 

“ Remember your promise,” said Paul, solemnly, and they 


32 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


separated for the night, Edward wishing his cousin success, 
and thinking as he took his way upstairs that whatever Miss 
Sibyl Rickman^s character might be, the Rickman blood was 
reputed to be an eminently mild and tranquil fluid, well calcu- 
lated to temper the fire of such of the terrible Mowbray strain 
as might have been transmitted to Paul. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE MEET. 

Wheh Paul Annesley appeared at breakfast next morning 
he had a heavy look, and yawned a good deal, for which he 
apologized, observing, casually, that he had been called up at 
two in the morning, and only got home at six. 

Mrs. Annesley’s comment upon this was to say tranquilly 
that it usually occurred three nights running; but Edward, 
whose deep slumbers had been invaded once or twice by sounds 
which roused him sufficiently to make him wonder if he had 
fallen asleep in the guard-house, questioned his cousin, and 
learned that he had ridden five miles on the cob he had used 
the day before to a cottage in a dell, which could be approached 
only by a footpath; that he had tied the Admiral to a gate in 
a field, and left him while he visited the patient, who died. 

In the meantime, the horse had broken loose, and, after a 
loug and tantalizing chase round the field, Paul dropped and 
broke his lantern, and wandered knee-deep into a pool of 
water, and slipped down once or twice; after which he decid- 
ed to walk home through the dark, drizzling morning, leaving 
the provoking steed to his fate. This proved to be nothing 
more dreadful than being captured at daylight by the patient^s 
husband, and led back to Medington, whither the widower was 
bound for various sad necessities. He now stood, with the 
animal before the door, even while the cousins were talking, a 
picture of homely tragedy. 

In spite of these nocturnal adventures, Paul was bent on 
going to the meet, which was at the Travelers^ Rest on Arden 
Down that day; he was further bent on Edward^s accompany- 
ing him, though a search through the livery stables at Meding- 
toii resulted in the production of nothing better than an im- 
mense gaunt old chestnut, which had once seen good days, and 
which it required some moral courage to ride. Paul, with a 
truly heroic magnanimity, offered his cousin his own little 
thorough-bred Diana, whom he loved like a child; but Edward, 
with a heroism scarcely less, declined, and the cousins started 
off on their dissimilar steeds; Larry, the chestnut, charmed to 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


33 


find himself in such aristocratic company, and apparently de- 
pressed when his polite attentions were received by his elegant 
companion with the haughty indifference incident to a high- 
bred beauty. 

As they trotted quietly along, Paul stopping occasionally to 
visit a patient, Edward thought a good deal about him and his 
mother. What a good fellow he was, how cheerfully he faced 
the hardships of his lot, and, above all, what an excellent son 
he was to that very trying mother! Few sons were so much 
loved as he, and his affection for his mother was deep and 
strong. He must have been very desperate when he smashed 
the tea-service; it was the sole passionate outbreak on his part 
of wliich he had heard. 

He thought of his own kind and sweet-tempered mother, 
also a widow, and to whom his conscience told him he was not 
as dutiful as Paul to his wayward parent, and. wondered how it 
would have fared with himself, had his father married Eleanor 
Mowbray, as family tradition, confirmed by gentle Mrs. Ed- 
ward Annesley^s severe strictures on Mrs. AV alter, reported 
that he had wished to do. 

Over the chimney-piece in his bedroom at Medington was a 
portrait of Eleanor Mowbray which haunted him. It was 
taken at the time of her marriage, and represented a lovely 
girl in the childish costume of early Victorian days, with arch 
blue eyes peeping out from between two bunches of curls in 
front of the cheeks. He had gazed fascinated upon it, vainly 
trying to detect the lurking demon behind the angel semblance. 

He was on a visit to Medington when Nellya’s death occurred. 
The child, then twelve years old, on being severely and unduly 
scolded for -some slight fault by her mother, who was chasing 
her from place to place, harassed at last beyond endurance, 
had turned, seized a brush from the hall table, and thrown it 
at Mrs. Annesley. Edward was standing by. 

“ Undutiful child! You have killed me! You are unfit to 
live. Never let me see you again!'' the mother burst out 
with fierce vehemence. 

The child took her at her word, and ran out of the garden 
door; Edward never would forget her white face as she turned 
before disappearing. 

Next morning he saw hei* slight body borne drowned into 
that hall. She had not been missed; being in disgrace, she 
was sujDposed to be hiding about the house somewhere, until 
she was found by the river-side, and thus tragically brought 
home. 

Were there other demons lurking unseen behind otlier angel 
2 


34 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


faces? he wondered. Did Eleanor Annesley in those innocent 
bridal days dream what she was capable of? did she even now 
realize the horror of the thing which at times possessed her? 
Paul, though he had “ sent the tea-service after the Psyche, 
did not dream that the curse of the Mowbrays had fallen on 
himself. For not only is each human being an enigma to his 
fellows, a dark mystery fenced about on every side by im- 
passable limits which obscure his nature almost as eifectually 
as Sigfrid^s Tarnkappe, or Cloak of Darkness, did the hero's 
bodily presence, but, what is still stranger, each is an insoluble 
mystery to himself. No one can tell how he will act in un- 
foreseen circumstances, which may prove the touchstone to 
reveal unsuspected qualities; nay, even when the fierce disci- 
pline of life has brought many unexpected features to light, 
and a long record of good and ill is written on the memory, 
who . can analySb the Hiotives, mixed as they must be, which 
prompted those deeds? 

We may well be humbled, not knowing but we may one day 
fall, and gentle in judging others, since we might have done 
as ill ourselves. Paul in the meantime was haunted by the 
vision of Alice, sitting in the carved oak chair beneath the 
armor, with the hound at her knee, in the fire-lighted hall, 
and considering if he could manage to get landed at Arden 
Manor before the end of the day; for the days on which he did 
not see her became more and more fiat and unprofitable. 

“ Except I be by Sylvia in the night, 

There is no music in the nightingale; 

Except I be by Sylvia in the day, 

There is no day for me to look upon.” 

Then he mused upon the news he heard there, and thought 
how it would have been with him, had Reginald's baby not 
been born. ' His prospects were so dark, he could not help 
thinking of Edward's happier circumstances, his more agree- 
able life and comparative wealth. 

And now the chestnut pricked up his ears and looked about 
him with a joyous excitement, which rivaled Diana's own 
youthful ardor, and they knew that the hounds were near, and 
Paul pressed on through the ever-growing stream of horses and 
carriages to see his patient, leaving his cousin to follow at 
leisure. 

In spite of the leaden sky and thick moist air, which ob- 
scured all but near objects, the desolate spot on which the 
lonely inn was built looked gay and animated this morning. 
In front of the low stone wall of the court-yard moved the 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


35 


parti-colored mass of hounds, their sterns waving with half- 
suppressed enthusiasin; out of their midst rose the huntsman 
on his bright bay, his scarlet coat emphasized by the gray 
background of the inn. That awful personage, the master, 
splendidly mounted and brightly clad, with a world of care on 
his brow, was exchanging polite commonplaces with gentle- 
men, to some of whom his expressions later in the day would 
be less civil andmiore forcible. The mass of riders wore dark 
coats, but the proportion of red was enough to brighten the 
whole picture. Four or five farmers on good horses of their 
own breeding, two or three beautifully equipped county gen- 
tlemen, a few ladies, some half dozen nondescript riders, in- 
cluding a clergyman, who said he was only looking on, a rab- 
ble of boys, with half a dozen officers from regiments stationed 
near, made up the field. A barouche, two landaus, three 
wagonettes, a few phaetons, gigs and dog-carts, an empty coal- 
wagon and a butcher’s cart, were drawn up in the road, and 
Edward vainly scanned the ladies in these vehicles in search of 
the object of PauFs affection. 

Then he glanced at the solitary inn, and thought of the 
suffering that a thin wall separated from the animated group 
of pleasure-seekers. Keuben Gale was walking Diana up and 
down, and exchanging pleasantries with the whip. His father 
was leaning on the low wall, with an empty pewter pot in his 
hand, enjoying the scene just as if his daughter were not 
dying and he had not all those graves down in Arden Church- 
yard. People were laughing, chatting, and smoking; horses 
were champing their bits, and sidling' and stamping with the 
exultation of the coming hunt. The warm, dan^p air was 
laden with the scent of opening buds, trampled turf and trod- 
den earth; the luscious flute-notes of thrushes, and the tender 
coo-coo of wood-pigeons came from the copses below and min- 
gled with the occasional neigh of a horse or whine of a hound. 
There was a joyous thrill of expectancy that made Edward 
forget his steed’s shortcomings, and neither he nor any one 
else thought of the background of tragedy which shadowed 
every human being present. 

Among the horses was a beautiful white Arab, easily dis- 
tinguished by the characteristic spring of the tail from the 
haunches, and Edward observed the animal with such interest 
that he did not notice the rider. The latter, however, pressed 
his knees into tlie Arab, and sprung forward so suddenly that 
the excited Larry backed into an unpretending phaeton, con- 
taining an old gentleman and a young lady. He caught thr 
flash of a pair of dark eyes as he turned after getting free, and 


36 THE REPROACH OF AHNESLET. 

apologized, and then found himself accosted by the Arab's 
rider,' a Highland officer of his acquaintance, who bestowed 
some ironical praise upon the unlucky Larry. 

Edward laughed, and explained that it was Hobson's choice. 

Captain Mcllvray, the Honorable Kenneth of that great 
name, regretted that he had not known in time to offer him a 
mount. “ But, my dear fellow," he added, in his affected 
drawl, ‘‘ you said you were staying at Medington." 

“ Yes, I am staying with some friends who live there." 

‘‘ Eeall}^" returned the Highlander, “ do you mean to say 
that anybody lives in that beastly hole?" 

Some ten thousand people live there, I believe," replied 
Edward, tranquilly. 

“Possibly," reflected Hie other, fixing his eyeglass so as 
to take a steadier survey of him. “Ah! you mean, Annesley, 
that they don't quite die there, eh?" 

“ I mean tliat they live lives a precious sight better than 
those you fellows live up in your barracks, with your dances 
and dinners and horses, and all your idleness and affectations." 

“ Stwange fellow, vewy stwange!" moralized the officer, 
shaking his head with affectionate gravity; “ always thought 
you were a parson spoiled. " 

“Oh! stow that affectation; why can't you* say what you 
think and be what you are, a genuine honest Scotchman in- 
stead of an imitation dishonest cockney?" 

“ A wough diamond, vewy wough," continued the High- 
lander, offering him a cigar. “ And who are the virtuous 
fwiends who live the supewior lives in the stweets of Meding- 
ton?" 

“ Paul Annesley, my cousin, a doctor. That brown mare 
with black points is his; he is visiting a patient in the inn 
there," replied Edward. “ He doesn't pretend to hunt, but 
says he can't help it if the hounds will run in front of him." 

“ Vewy good weasoning, vewy clever mare. Ah! intwoduce 
me — worthy doctor." 

“ I'll be shot if I'll introduce you to anybody you speak of 
in that idiotic way," said Edward, laughing in spite of his 
words; and the Highlander laughed too, and worded his re- 
quest differently, and then Paul came bounding up on Diana, 
and Edward introduced them. 

“ And now, Edward," said Paul, after a few words, “ I 
must reintroduce you to some old friends." 

And, turning, he led them up to the very phaeton into 
which the chestnut had just backed, and the owner of the dark 
eyes, who had unavoidably heard every word that had passed 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


37 


between the two officers, proved to be no other than Sibyl 
Eickman. 

'‘I should never have known you for our old friend, Sib- 
bie,^^ he said, with unaffected admiration, and then the pack 
moved off to the copse below the inn, and the phaeton was 
drawn with the two horsemen into the moving stream which 
followed it, so that he had only time to observe a pretty voice 
and laugh, an animated face and an easily excited blush, as 
the charms which won PauEs heart. 

But Sibyl, having overheard his conversation with the High- 
lander, formed an estimate of his character which she never 
altered. She mused on it while talking at the cover-side to 
Paul, with whom Edward purposely left her while renewing 
his acquaintance with Mr. Eickman. It seemed to the dreamy, 
imaginative Sibyl that so fine a vision of young manhood had 
never before blessed her sight. His very gesture when he 
patted the neck of the despised old horse went to her heart, 
and remained there forever. 

"Kie air was now alive with expectation; the eager cry of a 
hound broke out and set the horses’ ears quivering; the hunts- 
man’s horn was winded ever and anon; whips cracked like pis- 
tol-shots in the heart of the wood; the last cover hack was 
exchanged for hunter, girths were tightened, bits examined, 
cigars thrown away and conversation became spasmodic. 
Again the passionate cry of a hound, another and another, 
then silence; more horn blowing, more pistol cracks, and 
demoniac yells from human lungs, finally the full triumphant 
chorus of the pack. 

Then a strange jumble of sounds and excitement, ar general 
stampede of saddle-horses, all kinds of misbehavior on the part 
of those in harness, a universal madness seizing man and beast, 
and the cover-side in a few moments is deserted, riders stream- 
ing across the fields, and carriages along the nearest high-road, 
because a small reddish-brown Animal with a bushy tail has 
just whisked cautiously out of the far side of the coppice, look- 
ing behind him with a sagacious grin, and rejoicing that the 
nearest muzzle sniffing his trail is a good way behind. 

Straight along the valley beneath the down flashed Eeynard, 
and what he thought of the splendid canine chorus behind him, 
and whether he appreciated the melody of the fine pack and 
was soothed to find them ‘‘ matched in mouth like bells,” un- 
fortunately nobody knows. Yet one can not help thinking 
that it must be a fine thing to dart away thus at full stretch, 
and by the exercise of all one’s powers to strain and perhaps 
baffle all that tremendous following of instinct, strength and 


38 


THE EEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


skill; to fight alone— one small, solitary animal— all those 
trained monsters in the chiming pack, those gigantic, high- 
mettled steeds, and that great army of thinking men. At all 
events this particular fox, rejoicing that his last meal had been 
opportunely timed to put him in trim for a run, laid his legs 
to the ground' smartly, and gallantly resolved, if it came to 
the worst, to die hard. 

, On dashed the hounds, mad with exultation, uttering their 
wild music; on thundered the field, horses and men alike in- 
toxicated with the chase, and neither thinking of Keynard’s 
sensations. Now the master^s face is aflame with wrath, and 
his denunciations are loud and pungent, as some reckless rider 
blunders over the hindmost hounds; the huntsman and the 
whip are alive in every nerve; the best riders are restraining 
the eagerness of their steeds; field after field is swallowed up, 
hedge and ditch and brook are cleared, with every field the 
hunt is drawn out into a longer and thinner stream; timid 
riders are seen scrambling along hedge-rows in search of gates 
and gaps; there is a horse, hoofs uppermost, and near hina his 
rider with red coat all tarnished, and once spotless breeches 
stained with mud. There is a cry of ^Ware wheat that 
cunning little brown beast has bolted straight across a field of 
young corn. On he dashes, less hindered by obstacles than 
any other member of the hunt, which perhaps makes him grin 
so sardonically as he flies. 

The carriages see most of the fun from the high-road; but 
now the hunt has vanished from their view, and spectators 
can ‘only form shrewd guesses as to the whereabouts of the 
pack, and tyros are beginning to find that hunting is more 
complicated than it seems. 

Paul and Diana have gone as straight as any bird; only once 
did ‘ they swerve aside, and that was to avoid overriding the 
Highlander, whom they observed sitting with an air of be- 
wilderment in the middle of a field, whither his horse, who, 
after coming down on his nose, was now picking himself up and 
continuing his course riderless and undaunted, had pitched 
him in coming over the fence. Nothing but delight reigns 
now in PauPs breast; neither the shadow of the Mowbray 
temper nor the glory of Alice Lingard^s presence in the fire- 
lighted hall alfects him, and when he sees another man flying 
out of his saddle he is half angry lest he should have contrived 
to break some bone and so need his aid. But the man knows 
how to fall, and is soon mounted again, followed by the High- 
lander, who has escaped with a few bruises, on his recaptured 
Arab. 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 39 

As for Larry, he and his rider alike forgot his advanced age 
in the first burst of joyous excitement, and pounded over a 
field or two, taking a moderate fence with the best. But at 
the second fence, horse and rider, dreadfully mixed up, came 
rolling down the opposite bank together, and Edward had to 
execute a vigorous roll of his own devising to get free of. 
Larry^s hoofs. The old horse appeared none the worse for his 
tumble, and the rider, finding that his own bones were intact, 
rode on with moderated ardor, seeking gates and gaps wherever 
a fence occurred, and what with these delays, and the neces- 
sity of going softly lest Larry should come down, as he nearly 
did once or twice, was gradually left behind, until at last, after 
more than once being thrown out, and finding the trail again 
by dint of observation and surmise, found himself a solitary 
rider on the other slope of the down, with a spent horse; and 
the hounds nowhere. “ Poor old fellow he said, patting 
Larry’s hot, wet neck, as he walked quietly along, ‘‘ I doubt 
if any horse has done so gallantly as you to-day. You gave 
me the best you could, and now we will jog quietly home.” 

But the thing was to find a road home, and they went 
through a couple of fields without seeing a living creature or 
discovering any means of reaching the high-road Edward knew 
to lie along the valley. The rain had cleared off now, the 
breath of primroses and violets came deliciously on the moist, 
wild, spring air, and the larks sung in distracting raptures and 
whirls of song. 

The next field showed a pretty sight. It was fresh plowed, 
and the scent of the warm earth rose from its symmetrical 
furrows, along which came with rapid even stride a man with 
a wooden bask^et of peculiar shape slung on his left arm, while 
with his right he kept dipping into it, and with an indescriba- 
bly graceful movement^ rhythmically matched to the motion 
of his steps, he scattered a shower of seed-corn over the gaping 
furrows. It was delightful to watch this man, in his skilled 
strength and unconscious dignity, as he strode with swift even 
step and swift even sweep of the right arm up and down the 
furrows, exactly throwing his golden grain with strenuous but 
regulated toil. 

‘‘ Le geste auguste du semeur,” sings Victor Hugo. 

The sower paused and breathed while he refilled his basket 
from a sack standing upright in the field, and started olf 
again, followed wherever he went by a couple of horses and 
a man with a harrow to rake the seed into the soil. This man 
moved more leisurely, cracked his whip cheerily, and whistled 


40 


THE KEPllOACH OP AHNESLEY. 


a mellow note when not uttering strange sounds to his horses, 
and of him Edward asked the nearest way to Medington. 

Having reached the end of the furrow, the man with the 
harrow caused his steeds to stop, and, taking olf his cap and 
burying his lingers in his curls, looked with a perplexed air up 
and down and all round in profound silence for some moments. 
One might suppose that he was silently invoking the inspira- 
tion of some deity. Then he observed, cautiously, “ Darned 
if 1 knows. 

“ How am I to get down into the high-road, then?^’ asked 
Edward. 

“You med goo over down,^" continued the man, ignoriug 
the second question, which had scarcely had time to penetrate 
to the remote regions of his brain; “but Tis terble rough. 
Then agen, you med goo along down hroad. ^ ’ 

“ Exactly,'^ replied Edward, no wiser than before; “but 
how am I to get into the road?^^ 

“ Zure enough, he returned, addressing the sower, “ how 
be he to get into hroad 

“ Is there no lane?^^ asked Annesley, looking at the maze 
of fields between himself and the far-distant road in the valley. 

“ Ay,” replied the sower, who was resting now, and bring- 
ing out his dinner from a bundle, “ youTl zoon vind he. Goo 
on athirt them turmuts; there^s a lane over thay-urr.^^ And 
he pointed his thumb vaguely over his shoulder. 

.He rode athwart the turnips accordingly, not knowing that 
the sower considered “ over -there, with a westward direction 
of the thumb, sufiicient indication of the whereabouts of 
America, found a gate, and at last came upon a steep furzy 
slope the other side of the turnip field. The ground gradually 
became rougher and steeper, and suddenly he found himself 
rapidly descending an almost perpendicular slope, which the 
curve of the ground had hidden from him. He was just going 
to dismount, when he was relieved from that necessity by the 
sudden collapse of Larry, who stumbled over a rabbit-hole, 
and came crashing down head over heels, and rolled in a most 
complicated manner to the bottom; while Edward, on finding 
himself shot over Larry's head, instinctively guided his own 
rolls out of the horse^s orbit, and arriving at the bottom by a 
separate track, kept his bones unbroken. 

The chestnut was not so fortunate as his rider, and got a 
cut on his shoulder aud one on his knee, and presented a mel- 
ancholy spectacle when he scrambled to his feet, and set about 
to console himself by browsing out on the short turf near 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLET. 


41 


him; and Edward, reflecting that hunting on a worn-out hack 
has its drawbacks, began to wonder what was to be done next. 


CHAPTER V. 

SPRING FLOWERS. 

He found the high-road at last and a cottage, where he 
turned in and washed and bandaged Larry^s knee. Then he 
set off on the road to Medington on foot, as fast as the woful 
limp of the unlucky chestnut would permit, with the bridle 
over his arm, and cheerily trotting out reminiscences of the 
“ Bay of Biscay.'’^ The road was long, the “ Bay of Biscay 
came to an end, and Larry heard with interest all about Tom 
Bowling, whose “ soul is gone aloft. 

Presently they reached a little village of thatched cottages 
in gardens, dotted on either side of the road, and there beneath 
the slope of the down Edward recognized the low square tower 
of Arden Church, with the manor house just beyond it, and 
burst out lustily with ^Twas in Trafalgar's Bay,"’"’ which re- 
vived Larry^’s drooping spirits. 

‘‘ ‘ For England, Home, and Beauty,^ repeated the singer 
in softer notes, wondering if the Golden Horse, picturesquely 
shaded by a row of sycamore-trees, furnished good ale, for it 
was now quite hot, and the sun was struggling through the 
clouds, when he saw a phaeton approaching the turning to the 
manor, and recognized the dark flash of Sibyl Rickman^s eyes. 

The phaeton pulled up. Mr. Rickman condoled with him 
upon his melancholy plight, and bade him turn in to Arden at 
once; to which Edward at first demurred, averring that he 
was not presentable. 

That difficulty was soon got over. Larry was comfortably 
stabled; it was agreed that his owners should send for him 
later, and Edward found himself at the threshold of the hall, 
across which was stretched the magnificent form of Hubert, 
the deer-hound, who rose with dignity to receive his friends, 
eying the new-comer's mud-stains with evident suspicion. A 
little soap and water and a borrowed coat made him quite 
presentable, and his host, surveying him with satisfaction, and 
observing that he had grown a good deal since he last saw him, 
conducted him along a paneled corridor to the drawing-room, 
a cheerful apartment in white painted wainscot, with an oriel 
wdndow looking southward on a sunny old-fashioned garden, 
which was even now bright with early spring flowers. 

The sun had at last burst through the clouds, and, as the 
drawing-room door opened, a flood of sunshine poured through 


42 


THE BEPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


the oriel upon his face, half blinding him for the moment. 
Then he saw Mrs. Eickman at work in an easy-chair by the 
fire, and near her Sibyl with a book, looking, now that she 
had put off her wraps, the pretty, graceful creature she was. 

Having spoken to Mrs. Eickman, he turned once more to 
the light, vaguely conscious of a disturbing presence in that 
direction, and there, rising from her seat beneath the glowing 
oriel window at a table on which she was arranging some flow- 
ers in vases, with the rich sunshine calling out all the gold 
tints in her brown hair, and making a tiny halo about her 
head, he saw Alice Lingard. 

He stood still, and fixed one long earnest gaze upon her, 
not at first noticing Mrs. Eickman'^s introduction of ‘ ‘ Miss 
Lingard, our adopted daughter,'’ while a sudden light irradi- 
ated Alice’s eyes and a warm glow suffused her face. In one 
hand she held some daffodils; as she rose, she overturned a 
basketful of them at her feet, and from the folds of her dress 
there glided primroses, violets, and other spring flowers, of 
which the bowls and vases on the table before her were full. 

“ O Proserpina, 

For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let’st fall 
From Dis’s wagon! daffodils, 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim. 

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, 

Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, 

That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
The great sun in his strength.” 

They were all there, those delicate flowers of hope and spring 
for which Perdita longed, to give to her young prince; they made 
a fit setting for the young and gracious creature who rose from 
their midst, scattering them as she rose. 

Her clear, tranquil gaze met the stranger’s frankly for a 
moment, while a slight tremor made the slender daffodils 
quiver in her hand; but his long and silent glance in no way 
offended her, nor did it strike any one else as disrespectful. It 
seemed as if he had been gazing all his life-time at that sweet 
vision among sunshine and flowers; yet everything within him 
seemed to die and be born again as he gazed; life became 
glorious and full of dim delicious mystery in the sudden stir of 
intense emotion. He did not say, “This woman shall be 
mine,” for he felt that she was his and he was hers for ever 
aiAd ever. 

Then he became aware that in rising she had overturned the 
basket of flowers, and after the silent reverence which he made 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


43 


on being introduced^ his first action was to kneel before her 
and restore the scattered flowers to their^places. 

“It is a sudden leap from winter to spring, from the wet 
morning with the hounds to all these flowers and sunshine/^ 
he said, as he handed her a mass of blue violets. 

“ Yes, the spring always comes suddenly upon us, when it 
does come,^^ Alice replied, grouping the violets. 

“ But, unluckily, it does not always stay/^ broke in Mr. 
Hickman, in his rough voice, which resembled the rasping of 
a chair drawn over a stone floor: “ even the Italians, who 
know what spring really means, the spring northern poets 
dream about and never see, have a proverb to that effect; 
about the flrst swallow, Sibbie, my dear?^^ 

“ Nobody wants our musty old proverbs, papa,^^ replied 
Sibyl, with a graceful impertinence* that always pleased her in- 
dulgent father, “ Mr. Annesley would far rather have some 
dinner.^’ 

‘ ‘ Perhaps he would like some violets as a welcome back to 
Arden, Alice,^^ suggested Mrs. Hickman. “ Those gray 
Neapolitans are the sweetest. 1 can scarcely believe this is 
little Ned Annesley shot up so tall. 

“ There, Mr. Annesley, Alice said, handing him a bunch 
of the double violets, “ I present you with the freedom of 
Arden. Miss Hickman should have done it as the real daugh- 
ter of the house. She looked up with a frank, sweet smile, 
which made him feel as we do in dreams when we light upon 
some long-lost treasure and imagine that an end has now 
come to all care. 

Mr. Hickman began to discourse upon the extensive use of 
flowers in the religious and civil life of the ancient Greeks, in 
his harsh yet kindly voice, and Edward smiled to himself when 
he recalled Gervase^s schemes in school-boy days to start his 
father oman absorbing monologue, and so divert his attention 
at critical moments. Mr. Rickman had not changed in the 
least: his small keen blue eye was just as bright, his face as 
dried up and lined, his slight wiry flgure had the same scholar’s 
stoop, and his manner was as absent and dreamy as in those 
boyish days. 

Soon they found themselves at table in the dark oak-paneled 
dining-room, ^ut-it seemed less dark than when Edward had 
last seen it; the pictures, with their flue mellow gloom, still 
hung dusky in the darkness; but some silver sconces and bits 
of old china brightened the wails; a vase holding daffodils 
made a luster against a black panel, and harmonized with a 
blue china bowl of the same graceful flowers on the table. Yet 


44 


THE REPROACH OF AXNESLEY. 


not these trifles alone brightened the dai'kness of that familiar 
old room. 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Eickman, when Annesley said some- 
thing about the unaccustomed brightness the flowers wrought; 
“ the feminine eye is ever seeking the ornamental. My 
daughters are occupied from moriiing till night in trying to 
beautify everything. Happily they do not seek to improve my 
appearance — this was too evident — “ and respect the sanctity 
of my study — 

“ The dirt of his den/^ interrupted Sibyl. 

“ The whole of human history is permeated by this pecul- 
iarity of the female mind/^ continued Mr. EIckman, abstract- 
edly gazing into space; “ all legend is pervaded by it. I pur- 
pose one day to bring out a paper on the ‘ Influence of the 
Feminine Love of Ornament upon the Destinies of the Human 
Eace.-’ My paper will embrace a very wide range of thought. 
I suppose there is no period of human history when the female 
desire to wear clothes did not manifest itself, and the passion 
for improving upon the workmanship of nature by art is 
evinced to-day in the rudest savage tribes as well as in the 
highest circles of European fashion. A necklace has in all 
nations been the most elementary article of female attire; a 
woman paints her face and tattoos her body long before she 
arrives at the faintest rudiment of a petticoat. I need not 
remind my readers — 1 mean you, my dears, and Annesley — of 
the part a necklace played in the tremendous drama of the 
French Eevolution, and there are numerous episodes in that 
sanguinary tragedy — 

“ But we canT dine on a sanguinary tragedy, papa,^^ said 
Sibyl; for, having started himself upon a congenial topic, her 
father had laid down his knife and fork, and with folded hands 
was placidly contemplating the joint rapidly cooling before 
him. 

‘‘True, my dear, very true, 1 had forgotten the dinner,"^ 
he replied, with his accustomed meekness, and hastening to 
carve the joint; “ the female mind— but perhaps, Annesley, 
the female mind may not interest you. At ail events, you can 
read my notes upon the subject later, and you may be able to 
furnish me with the results of your own experience in that 
branch of study. ^ 

In spite of his pedantry, Mr. Eickman was, in Annesley’s 
'dazzled eyes, a charming and interesting old man, with his 
stores of out-of-the-way knowledge and his simplicity upon the 
things of every-day life. Ml^s. Eickman seemed the most lov- 
able old lady, as she truly was., and Sibyl the wittiest and pret- 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 45 

tiest of sprightly maidens: the simple food before him might 
have been a banquet, and the Arden home-brewed ale a drink 
for gods. It is difficult for cold blood to realize the enchant- 
ment that fell upon him, and made him not only pleased with 
everything he saw, but himself pleasing to a degree he never 
before or afterward reached, though there was that in his face 
which inspired confidence, and he was not slow to majce 
friends. 

He could not tear himself away. After dinner his host, 
finding him so good a listener, took him to his study and 
showed him his treasures — coins, gems, and antiquities; but 
when these were exhausted, he lingered still as if spell-bound, 
apparently listening to the notes of a piano sounding through 
the house. Some instinct told him that Aliceas hand and no 
other was evoking the solemn harmony. 

She continued to play when he entered the drawing-room 
whither his host led him, looking up to ask if they “ minded 
the music, and he took a seat by Sibyl, his eyes following the 
slender fingers which drew the living music from the passive 
keys, and his mind full of unspeakable thoughts. Then she 
sung the beautiful song — 

“ Tell me, my heart, why morning’s prime 
Looks like the fading eve ” — 

which is like the long-drawn sigh of an excessive happiness, 
and he listened in ever-growing delight. Sibyl looked at him 
once during the music and a strange feeling came over her; 
his face was like that of a worshiping St. George she had seen 
pictured somewhere, so rapt and earnest. 

Then, at Mrs. Eickman^s request, Sibyl sung, to Aliceas ac- 
companiment, the following: 

“ Once have I seen and shall love her forever; 

For the soul that glanced from her eyes to mine 
Is lovely and sweet as its delicate shrine; 

But once have I seen and must love her forever, 

All my heart to her resign; 

Though never for me her eyes may shine, 

Though never perchance may I divine 
How ’tis when lives together twine. 

Since once I have seen 1 must love her forever.” 

Still he lingered, though the afternoon, which grew more 
balmy and beautiful toward its close, was wearing away, and 
one of the girls opened the window wide to let in the sunny 
air, and he knew that he ought to go. 

“ And is Kaysh Squire alive still he asked, seeking some 


46 


THE KEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


excuse for lingering. “1 should like to see the old fellow 
again. 

“ You may hear him at the present moment, ringing your 
poor cousin’s knell/’ said Sibyl, calling his attention to the 
tolling from the steeple near, which had not ceased since he 
approached the village, though it had been but faintly heard 
thd'ough the closed windows, and Mr. Eickman suggested that 
the young women should take their guest to the belfry and 
reintroduce him, a proposition the latter eagerly seconded, 
maintaining that he wished to see the church again, and re- 
visit the tombs of his ancestors, of whose mail-clad forms he 
had but a dim and childish recollection. 

Even while they spoke, Eaysh Squire came to the end of his 
monotonous and melancholy office in the chill belfry, and went 
out into the sunny afternoon, stretching his stiffened arms and 
yawning. As he did so, he saw a figure in shirt-sleeves by a 
barrow on the other side of the church-yard wall in the vicar- 
age grounds stretching his arms and yawning with equal in- 
tensity, and since nothing fosters friendship like a community 
of interests and occupation, this sympathetic sight moved him 
to drag his slow steps across the mounded turf to that quarter, 
and, resting his arms on the wall, to look over it, just as the 
figure in shirt-sleeves, which was that of a young and stalwart 
man, executed a final yawn of surpassing excellence, and seat- 
ing himself on the barrow, began drawing out and filling a 
short pipe. 

“ Warm,” said the sexton, a long, wiry, bony figure, with 
a fieshless face, black hair, and whiskers touched with gray. 

“ Warmish,” replied the gardener, slowly, without raising 
his eyes from the turf On which he was gazing, while he kindled 
the pipe he held in the hollow of his hands. 

Then the sexton, turning round toward his cottage, which 
stood at the church-yard gate, beckoned to his grandchild to 
bring him the mug she held in her hand,. which contained his 
“ four o’clock,” a modest potation of small beer. 

“ Buryen’ of mankind, Josh Baker,” said the sexton, after 
applying himself to this refreshing cup, and thus concealing 
his features for some moments, “ is a dryen’ traiide.” 

“ Ay,” returned the gardener, after slowly and solemnly 
surveying the sexton’s withered features for some time, ‘ ‘ you 
looks dried, Eaysh Squire. ” Then he withdrew his gaze and 
puffed with long, slow puffs at his pipe, bonding forward, his 
arms resting on his legs, which were stretched out apart before 
him, and his hands clasped together. 

“ Bui-yen’ of mankind,” continued Itaysh, after a thought- 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. ‘ 


47 


ful pause, during wliich he sought fresh inspiration from the 
“four o^clock,^^ “ is a ungrateful traiide. Vur why? Volk 
never thanks anybody fur putting of ^em under ground. "" 

Josh pushed his felt hat back on his yellow curls, and ap- 
parently made a strong effort to take in this strikingly new 
idea for a moment or two, when he replied, “ I never yeard 
o^ nobody returning thanks vur the buryen’, not as I knows on, 
1 haint, 

“ Ay, Josh Baker, and I war^nt you never will, wuld boans 
as you med make. A ongratef ul traade is buryen% a ongrate- 
ful traade. 

“ I reckon youVe put a tidy lot under the ground. Master 
Squire, said the gardener, after a pause. 

“ Hreckon I hev, Josh,^^ returned the sexton, with a slow 
lateral extension of the lines in his withered face, which resem- 
bled a smile. “ Hreckon l\e a put more under ground than 
you ever drawed out on"t, ay, or ever will. IVe putt a power 
o'’ quality under ground, let alone the common zarfc. Wuld 
passon, I buried he, and the Lard knows where I be to putt 
this here one, .the ground's that vull. Eln Gale, she's a-gwine 
up under tree there. I shown her the plaace; ‘ And I'll do 
ee up comfortable, Eln,' I zays. ‘Thankee kindly. Master 
Squire,' zes she; ‘ you allays stood my vriend,' she zays. ‘ Ay, 
and I allays ool, Eln,' zays I, and ‘ I'll do ee up proper and 
comfortable, and won't putt nobody long zide of ee this twenty 
year to come.' ‘Thankee kindly. Master Squire,' she zes, 
‘ 'tis pleasant and heartsome up under tree when the prim- 
roses blows, and you allays stood my vriend. ' There ain't a 
many like Eln. A ongratef ul traade is buryen' and a dryiri' 
traade. " 

“ You ain't been burying of this yer Capen Annesley, 
Raysh," objected the gardener after some thought. “ How 
be um to bury he, if so be as he's yet by a elephant?" 

“ Hreckon they'll hae to bury the elephant. Josh Baker, if 
so be they haes Christian buryen' in their outlandish plaiices 
o' the yearth. I've ben a hringen of en out vur dree martial 
hours, and I've a done what I could vor 'n, I can't do no 
more. I hringed 's grandfather out and 's brothers, hringed 
'em out mezelf, and terble dry work 'twas. Ay, I've pretty 
nigh hringed 'em all out. Annesleys is come to their last 
end. " 

He illustrated this melancholy assertion by a final application 
to the “ four o'clock," having brought which to its last end, 
he handed the mug to the little wide-eyed grandchild, who 
trotted off' with it. 


48 " THE EEPROACH OF AHHESLET. 

This yere doctor o’ ourn’s a Aniiesley; there’s he left/’ 
objected the gardener. 

“ There’s Annesleys, and there’s Annesleys, Josh Baker. 
Zame as wi’ apples, there’s Eibestone Pippins and there’s Cod- 
lings. They Medington Annesleys is a common zart,” said 
the sexton, his voice conveying severe rebuke for the gar- 
dener’s ignorance, mingled with compassion for his youth. 

Ay, Josh Baker, this yere’s a knowledgable world, terble 
knowledgable world ’tis to be zure.” 

The gardener was tpo much crushed by this combination of 
axiom and illustration to make any reply, beyond doubtfully 
hazarding the observation, “ Codlings biles well,” which was 
frowned down, so he continued to smoke steadily with his eyes 
fixed on three daisies before him, while the scent of his tobacco, 
which was a doubtful odor, mingled with the scent of the mown 
grass in his barrow with most agreeable results. 

The sexton meantime leaned upon the mossed stone wall, 
enjoying the double pleasure of successful controversy within 
and the warmth of the March sunbeams without, and listened 
with vague delight to the rich flute-notes of a blackbird near, 
till the click of the church-yard wicket made him turn his head 
in that direction and walk slowly thither, while the gardener 
still more slowly rose and wheeled his barrow with its fragrant 
burden to its destination. 

“ Afternoon,” growled Eaysh, pulling his hair slightly as 
he approached the ladies from the manor, and looking at them 
as much as to say, “ what do you want now?” 

“You may as well look pleasant, if you can, Eaysh,” said 
Sibyl; “ we have only brought you an old friend.” 

“You don’t remember me. Master Squire, I dare say,” 
said Annesley. “ I was here as a boy with Mr. Gervase Eick- 
man and my cousin, Paul Annesley.” 

“ 1 minds ye well enough, ’’replied Eaysh. “ Master Ed- 
ward you be, and a terble bad buoy you was, to be zure. You 
and t’others, between ye, pretty nigh gallied me to death. 
Not as I bears no malice, bless ’ee. Buoys is made a purpose 
to tarment mankind, zame as malleyshags* and vlays, and 
buoys they’ll be till kingdom come, I hreckon. ” 

“ I fear we did lead you a life of it. 1 seem to remember 
getting into the tower and ringing the bells at some unholy 
hour. ” 

“ D’ye mind how I whacked ye vor’t?” replied the old man, 
brightening at the recollection. “ You minds. Miss Sibyl; 


Caterpillars. 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


49 


you zeen me laying the stick athirt the shoulders of en, and 
you zinged out to me to let en off/ and I let en off. Fd gin 
en a pretty penneth avore you come/" he added, with satisfac- 
tion. 

And I had forgotten this service. Miss Rickman,"" said 
Annesley, laughing. “ Perhaps some day I may repay the 
debt, though not in kind. Can we get into the church, 
Raysh?"" 

“ You med get into church if you"d got ar a kay,"" replied 
the old man; “ but if you ain"t got ar a kay you"ll hae to wait 
till I vetches one vor "ee. "" 

“ He gets more arbitrary every day of his life,"" explained 
Sibyl, laughing; ‘‘ and we spoil him more and more."" 

Alice stopped at the church yard gate to see the sexton"s 
ailing wife, and this circumstance caused Annesley to hurry 
through the church with only half an interest in the tombs of 
his ancestors and the humors of his old friend Raysh, whose 
“ chrisom "" name was Horatio, he told him. He had rung 
out George the Third, his two sons, and rung in the latter and 
Queen Victoria, he informed them, evidently thinking that 
neither of those sovereigns could have quitted this mortal scene 
without his aid. 

‘‘ R 3 ^alty,"" he observed, ‘‘takes a power o" hringen, and 
well wuth it they be. I don"t hold with these yer publicans, 
Mr. Annesley, as wants to do away wi" Queen Victoria. They 
med zo well let she alone, a lone lorn ooman what have rared 
nine children. Wants to make every think so vlat as the back 
o" my hand, they publicans doos. Ah, you med take my word 
vor"t, when you begins zetting down what the Lard have made 
high, you never knows where "t will end. They began wi" 
clerks. Thirty-vour year I stood under passun, and eddicated 
the volk with amens, and give out the psalms what was zung 
to dree viddles, a clarinet and a bugle, as you med mind when 
a buoy. And now they’ve a zet me down long wi" the lay 
volk, as though I wasn’t nar a bit better than they. Ay, that’s 
how they began, zure enough, and the Lard only knows where 
they med end. We caint all on us be queens, and we caint all 
on us be clerks, as stands to rayson. Zo those yer Radical 
chaps they ups and zes, ‘ w6 won’t hae no clerks, nor no 
queens, nor no nothink," zes they. Ay, that’s how "tes, zure 
enough. "" 

Annesley replied that, being himself a plain man, whose 
business it was to serve the queen, he was no politician, and, 
having sealed this assertion by the pressure of a crown-piece 
into his fleshless palm, came out of the church, leaving a good 


50 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


impression upon the old sexton^ who remained behind to tidy 
up the beifry before finally locking the doors. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THORNS. 

It would have been better for all if Edward Annesley had 
resisted the spell which kept him .chained to the spot that 
afternoon; but he did not. He lingered outside the sexton^s 
cottage, waiting for Alice, and talking to Sibyl of the days 
when they were children. 

“We were such extremely tiresome children, Sibyl said, 
“ that I can^t help hoping that we have a chance of growing 
into at least average Christians. 

Then it was that some demon inspired him with the mis- 
chievous notion of forwarding PauPs suit by proxy, and he re- 
plied that one of them, namely Paul, had matured into some- 
thing far beyond the human average, and that all he wanted 
to bring him to absolute perfection was a good wife. When 
he said this he looked straight into SibyPs bright eyes, but 
without evoking the embarrassment he expected. 

Then he blundered further into some observations upon the 
wisdom of marrying a friend known from childhood, and said 
finally that he thought such a friendship the best feeling to 
marry upon. 

“ Do you think so?’^ she returned, wistfully, and with the 
self-forgetfulness which lent such a charm to all she said; “ I 
can^t help thinking that I should like a little love. 

“ A little, he echoed, looking with warm admiration at the 
bright face so naively unconscious of itself; “oh! Miss Sibyl, 
it is not a little, but a great deal of love that such a face as 
yours commands!'^ He broke off, feeling that he had blun- 
dered seriously, though not fully conscious of the fervor with 
which he had spoken. Sibyl fiushed, and bent over a honey- 
plant incrusted with pink-scented blossom, about which the 
bees from Raysh Squire^s hives were humming — an old-fash- 
ioned cobtage plant, the scent of which ever afber stirred un- 
speakable feelings within her — for a moment, and then, quickly 
regaining her composure, replied with an airy laugh, “ What 
rubbish we are talking! we want Gervase to put us down with 
one of his little cynical speeches. 

“ Has Gervase grown into a cynic?^^ he asked, wondering 
how great an ass he had made of himself, and greatly relieved 
when, the long recital of Grandmother Squire^s woes being at 
last ended, Alice came out from the honeysuckled porch. 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


51 


; ‘‘ Graudmother Squire is in the loveliest frame of mind to- 

day. Sibyl/’ she said. ‘ Sure enough. Miss Lingard/ she 
told me, ‘ we be bound to put up with Providence, rheumatics 
and all. Not but what I’ve a had mercies. Ttoe was the 
twins took off, and what we yarned in the chollery.” 

‘‘Poor old soul!” commented Sibyl, as they turned away 
from the cottage, “ her rheumatism does try her. She said 
only yesterday, ‘ Raysh is bad enough, and I’ve a put up with 
lie this your-and-vorty year. But Raysh ain’t nothing to 
rheumatics, bless un! — ’ Oh!” Sibyl’s gay voice suddenly 
changed to a shriek of terror — “ he will be killed!” she cried, 
and flew down the lane to the high-road, preceded by Annes- 
ley, who leaped the gate she was obliged to open, while Alice 
ran to call Raysh. 

At Sibyl’s cry, and the grating sound of an overturned vehi- 
cle dragged over the gravel, the others turned their faces to 
the high-road, where they saw a half -shattered dog-cart jolted 
along by a powerful iron-gray horse, which was kicking against 
the ruin at his heels and maddening himself afresh at every 
kick. At the horse’s head, and holding him with a grasp of 
iron, was Gervase Rickman, hatless, and in imminent peril in 
his backward course, but making his weight tell fully against 
the plunging horse, whose progress he occasionally arrested 
altogether for a moment, and which he soothed from time to 
time with his hand and voice. 

He had evidently been. struggling for some time with the 
frightened animal; his face was pale with fatigue, and his hair 
damp with sweat. At some distance further up the road lay 
the unfortunate groom, who had been thrown out by the over- 
turning of the vehicle, and who occasionally got up and tried 
to walk, and, then, throwing up his arms in agony, fell again, 
hurt in the leg; while Gervase struggled pluckily on, now and 
then calling for help. Some women came out into the cottage 
gardens and shouted the first male name that occurred to 
them. Joshua Baker came pounding heavily over the vicarage 
[ lawn, with wide-spread arms and an action like that of a run- 
away cart-horse. Raysh issued from the church-yard with a 
lengthened but certainly not hurried stride, and arrived in time 
to bestow his benediction on the '.cutting of the last strap. 
Annesley reached the spot first, Sibyl and. Josh were a good 
• , second, and in a few minutes the first-comers had cut away 
^ tlie wreck and set the frightened horse free, Gervase still cling- 
iiig gallantly to the beast’s head, in spite of his indignation 
f with Sibyl, who tried to help the men, and certainly kept the 
A wreck from falling upon instead of away from the horse, until 


52 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


the creature, released from the clattering incumbrance at his 
heels, gradually quieted down, snorting and quivering less and 
less. 

By that time the owner of the equipage came running up 
from a house beyond the village, where he had been visiting a 
patient, while the unlucky groom had dozed off in the after- 
noon stillness, and had been taken by surprise, when some 
pigeons flying suddenly up under the horse^s nose started him 
off on a mad career, which, before the frightened lad could 
get the reins properly in hand, was terminated by a cannon 
against the bank at the corner. 

In a very few minutes the wreck was cleared from the road, 
the runaway led off, the injured lad taken into the Golden 
Horse, and attended to by his master, for whom a four-wheel 
had been got ready, and the Manor jDarty moved off slowly 
homeward. 

Annesley forgot his prejudice against the ‘‘ squint-eyed fel- 
low of the previous day; he could not have renewed his ac- 
quaintance with Eickman, whom he had last seen a lad in his 
teens, under better circumstances. His heart warmed toward 
the sturdy figure he had seen putting out all its strength 
against the great horse, with eyes glowing with courage and 
determination and every nerve instinct with vigor and gal- 
lantry. 

“ Well, Annesley, Gervase said, with a careless laugh, as 
they strolled homeward, ‘ ‘ perhaps you ought to know that 
you have been playing the Good Samaritan to PauFs most 
deadly foe. You may have heard of some of the misdoings 
of Davis. No? Then you will before long. 

“ I thought I knew the man,^^ Annesley replied. “ What! 
not the son of old Doctor Davis, he looks too old? Why does 
Paul dislike him? He seemed a good fellow.’’^ 

“ That old look is the head and front of his offending. He 
gets all PauPs patients by it. It is hard upon Annesley, who 
has twice his brains and education. He studied at Paris, as 
you know, after walking the London hospitals, while Davis 
scrambled through his course as best he could, and took a 
second-rate Scotch degree. Yet Davis succeeds; he so thor- 
oughly looks the family doctor, and was an aged man in Ins 
teens. Paul is rich in legends of the atrocities committed by 
Davis through ignorance and stupidity. 

Annesley replied that PauPs youthful looks did not seem a 
sufficient set-off against skill and science; but Eickman ex- 
plained that other things were against Paul. “ You may have 
noticed,"" he added, “ that he has an unlucky habit of speak- 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


53 


ing the truth; he has never mastered the truism that language 
is given us to conceal our thoughts/’ 

Edward had observed his cousin’s bad habit, but did not see 
how it could affect his success. 

“ My dear Annesley,” returned Eickman, “ have you never 
yet observed human beings, or discovered the fatuity of the 
truth-speaker? Animals have no language because they have 
nothing to conceal; they can communicate facts to each other 
without the delicate machinery of speech. But men, that is 
civilized men, only exist by means of concealments; if the sav- 
age virtue of truth prevailed, society would revert to chaos. 
Now, for instance, Paul is called to a man who is killing him- 
self by drinking spirits; the j^atient complains of his miseries, 
and asks what is the matter with him. ‘ Gin is the matter 
with you,’ replies Paul, ‘ and if you don’t leave it off you will 
be a dead man before long.’ Whereupon Paul is sent off, and 
Davis called in. Davis loojcs grave and sympathetic; he talks 
about complications and obscure symptoms, and gives the 
complaint a Greek name a yard long. ^ In the meantime,’ he 
says, ‘ alcoholic stimulants, even in the most moderate degree, 
may prove fatal. ’ Davis has studied the use of speech, Annes- 
ley has not.” 

“ I like Paul’s way best,” Sibyl observed. 

“ You are a young savage,” replied her brother; “ but you 
are so pretty that what you say is not of the slightest conse- 
quence.” 

“ Still, I do not see why Paul should be at odds with 
Davis,” persisted Edward. 

“Well! you are a refreshing young party!” thought Ger- 
vase. “ Annesley is jealous!” he added aloud — “ all the 
Mowbrays are. I should like you to observe casually, when 
you get home, that you met a delightful fellow named Davis, 
and helped pick up his fragments. You will then hear some- 
thing not to the doctor’s advantage. ” 

“ Language is used by some people to conceal their 
thoughts,” commented Annesley. “ I suppose, Mrs. Kick- 
man, that you take that grain of salt with your son’s state- 
ments. ” 

“ Always when he indulges his cynical vein,” she replied; 
laughing. “ But seriously, Mr. Annesley, the name of Davis 
acts on your cousin — yes, and on Mrs. Annesley — like a red 
rag on a bull, and people who are intimate with the Annesleys 
don’t visit the Davis set, and the Davis set don’t mix with 
Annesleys set. The medical profession is a jealous one.” 


54 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


To which he replied he had lieard successful men disparaged 
in other professions. 

“ Eaysh Squire/^ he added, “ says that jealousy dislodged 
him from the reading-desk. Raysh is as great a politician as 
ever — doesnT look a day older than he did years ago. 

“ The old rascal wears well. He says it is brain that keeps 
him sweet. Nobody can ‘ get upsides with ^ him. Raysh is 
the only man I ever heard talk sense upon politics. 

“ Why, Gervase, he is a rank Tory/'’ cried Sibyl, “ and you 
are a Liberal! How can you agree with him?^^ 

“Innocent child! Who said that I agreed with him? I 
only said he talked sense in politics, which I take care never 
to do, because people would never listen to me if 1 did. 

“ Really, Gervase,^’ said Alice, “ I can not understand your 
politics. With us you always talk like a Conservative, and 
yet whenever you write or speak in public you express the most 
extreme Liberal opinions. 

“ Party government, replied Gervase, slowly, “ is a useful 
machine, but it has its drawbacks. One is, that it obliges 
men to adopt a certain formula of clap-trap and stick to it.^^ 

“ Just so, said Annesley, rising to take his leave. “If 
you want to keep your hands clean, you must leave politics 
alone.'’’ 

“ I don’t believe it,” cried Alice, warmly. “ I can not be- 
lieve that honor and honesty are not necessary in the govern- 
ment of a great nation. Men are so weak before evil, so ready 
to bow down before the mean and base. If they had but the 
courage to stand up before Wrong and say, ‘ We will not bow 
down to it, we do not believe in this god; Right is stronger 
than Wrong,’ what a different world it would be!” 

“ It would indeed!” replied the young men simultaneously, 
but each with different meaning, and Gervase explained that 
he was not speaking of ideal politics but of party government 
— a very different matter. Then Edward took his way home- 
ward, musing upon the sudden fire in Alice’s calm face, and 
deeply stirred by her words, though he seemed to listen to Ger- 
vase, who walked part of the way with him. 

Paul Annesley did not appear until dinner was served; he 
had been in at the finish of the best run of the season, and on 
his return had to make another journey. He was fagged and 
lialf stupid, in poor condition to entertain the small dinner- 
party before him, which was to be augmented later on by a 
contingent of young people to tea. 

“ Fo]- Heaven’s sake, Ned,” he managed to whisper to his 
cousin, “entertain all these solemnities for me! I am dead- 


THE KEPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 55 

beat, and as stupid as an owl/’ An order that Edward re- 
ceived and carried out literally. 

Eor a full hour after dinner the wearied doctor could do 
nothing but yawn, until in desperation he went out of the 
room and got himself some strong coffee, while his cousin took 
his place. 

Medington parties were not very brilliant, as a rule; the 
same set of people transplanted from house to house, and going 
through exactly the same rites and ceremonies at each, pro- 
duced rather a monotonous effect upon one another; a stran- 
ger, and especially a stranger of the sex which is so sadly in 
the minority in country towns, was a welcome addition to 
these meetings. 

The ritual was as follows: A procession of bashful maidens 
solemnly passed one after the other to that instrument of social 
torture, the piano, and there, like so many Iphigenias, sacri- 
ficed themselves with more or less mental anguish, one of the 
scanty contingent of young gentlemen assisting at the sacrifice 
by turning the leaves, which, in spite of an anxious determina- 
tion to be right, he invariably did too soon, with dire results 
and blushes on both sides. The elders, witnessing this cere- 
monial, offered an interesting study to the physiognomist. 
Some wore their sermon faces, and appeared sincerely desirous 
of an edification which did not come; others sought consola- 
tion in contemplating the ceiling; while others assiduously 
studied their boots. All were glad when the blushes of the 
last Iphigenia died away; and the middle-aged gentlemen were 
consoled by whist, and their wives by the unfettered use of ' 
their tongues; the young folks taking refuge in the good spirits 
natural to youth, in the examination of photographs and the 
distraction of a round game. The mildest curate was not to 
be despised at such a gathering, much less a good-looking 
ofiBcer who could sing, and knew the latest drawing-room pas- 
times, and considered it a solemn duty to try to entertain every- 
body, and bring out every one’s latent talents for the general 
good; so that Edward, co-operating with Mrs. Annesley, who 
was too stiff to make a good hostess alone, caused the party to 
be the party of the year, and achieved a popularity that 
aroused the mpst hostile feelings in the breast of a certain 
young lawyer, whose courting had just then reached a critical 
stage. 

Paul was called out again just after his dose of coffee, and 
when he returned and entered the room unnoticed, to find 
people amusing themselves to an unusual degree, himself a 
nonentity in his own house, and his cousin quite at homf> in 


56 


THE EEPKOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


his place, a queer feeling came over him. He sat silent and 
gloomy in a remote corner, mentally recalling all Edward^s 
past misdeeds, and disparagingly criticising his present de- 
meanor. 

His old offenses of being taller, better-looking, in better cir- 
cumstances, and in a profession that he had himself most re- 
gretfully renounced from a sense of duty, revived, though per- 
haps Paul was not aware of it. All he consciously thought 
was that Edward was not the good fellow he had been; his 
manner was not quite up to the mark; there was a certain 
coxcombry about him that he really was sorry to observe, and 
so on. 

During these gloomy reflections his cousin observed to him 
in passing his chair, and apropos of a fresh assault upon the 
piano, “ How well Miss Hickman sings 

“ How on earth do you know how she sings?^^ growled Paul. 

‘‘I spent the afternoon at Arden, was the disquieting 
reply, which set Paul pondering as to how he got there, and, 
above all, why he went. 

Then he heard his mother request his cousin to do some lit- 
tle service that should have fallen to himself, and again began 
mentally depreciating him, until he looked up by chance and 
caught the reflection of his haggard, scowling face in a mir- 
ror, and started with a shamed sense of his- own paltriness 
which made him gloomier than ever. 

I can not imagine what 1 should have done without you 
to-night, Edward,” Mrs. Annesley said when the people were 
gone, “ Paul was utterly fagged and stupid. Another time, it 
would be better for you to leave the room altogether, Paul. ” 

“ Fine young man, that cousin of yours, said an elderly 
gentleman whom Paul was helping into his coat; ‘‘ glad to see 
him, whenever he likes to look in. ” Was it possible that these 
trumpery things could add to the acerbity of PauPs feelings? 
He would have scouted the idea. 

Overcome with sleep as he was, he would not go to bed until 
be had had a few words with his cousin, whom he took to his 
room to smoke. 

I think,” he began, after a few fierce puffs at his pipe, 
“ that you might have waited for me before calling on the 
Rickmans. As I told you, I had arranged my work on pur- 
pose to have a spare morning to-morrow, and meant to drive 
you over to luncheon.” 

He was only half mollified when Edward recounted his mis- 
adventures with the chestnut, and his accidental meeting with 
the, Rickmai^^ at their door. 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


57 


“ You military fellows never suffer from want of assurance, 
he grumbled; “ you seem to have made yourself pretty well at 
home at the Manor. 

‘‘ It was not due to personal merit; I was received as your 
cousin,^’ he replied. “ 1 say, Paul, I congratulate you on 
your choice. I am glad you forewarned me; such a charming 
girl, and so clever as well as pretty 

PauPs eyes flashed; he could scarcely bear even to hear her 
admired by another, and the word “ pretty seemed so inade- 
quate to express the lofty charm that made a sort of paradise 
about Alice. 

“ And do you suppose, he replied, in his haughtiest man- 
ner, ‘‘ that my choice would be less than the very highest? 
No mere jjrettiness would attract me. I may never win her, 
I may never even have the right to speak to her. But I shall 
never decline upon a meaner choice.^'’ 

‘‘Oh! you will win her, never fear,^^ replied Edward, on 
whom this arrogant tone jarred. “ But why not drive over 
all the same to-morrow? It would only be civil to thank Mr. 
Rickman for stabling the unlucky chestnut. 

“ My dear fellow, it would be more military than civil, re- 
turned Paul with asperity. “ If you begin an acquaintance by 
coming two days following to lunch, how on earth you are to 
carry it on. Heaven only knows 

It must have been the iced pudding, Edward thought; some- 
thing has disagreed with him. 

“ You did not tell me,'’^ he added, aloud, after long and 
silent reflection on the face he had seen in the sunny oriel 
among the flowers that morning, “ how Miss Lingard came to 
form one of the Arden family. Has she been with them 
long?^'’ 

“ When Sibyl w’as about thirteen they advertised for a girl 
of the same age to educate with her. Then Miss Lingard’s 
guardians placed her there. She has no ties of-'her own, and 
having become attached to them, and they to her, she now 
considers Arden her settled home. 

“ They all appear fond of her, even Gervase,^^ returned 
Edward. “ She treats him quite as a brother — 

“ Did that strike you?'’^ interrupted Paul. 

“Oh! yes, she "scolded him just as my sisters do me. And 
she picked up his hat and dusted it in the most matter-of-fact 
wa}^, and he took it without a word of thanks. How pluckily 
he stood up to that kicking horse! I like Rickman. I like 
them alh^'^he added, warmly. “ Such genial j^fople, so clever, 
and yet so homely in their ways. I like homely ways. I like 


58 THE HEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 

the dear old house. It seemed ail sunshine and music and 
flowers 

PauFs dark face flushed, and his eyes flashed so that the 
whites were visible. 

‘‘ Now I know/^ he thought, “ where he got those confound- 
ed violets. 

For, going to seek his cousin in his room just before dinner, 
the scent of flowers attracted him, and he saw a bunch of 
double gray violets in water on a table. He knew his habits 
well, and buying flowers was not among them; so he laughed, 
and came to his own conclusions. ‘ ‘ Some girl gave him those 
violets, 1^11 wager; and the fellow will be sentimental for about 
half an hour over them. ” 

But, now he knew that Edward had been to Arden, where 
in a warm nook beneath the south oriel those double violets 
grew, a spasm clutched at his heart. 

“ And so they gave you violets?’’’ he said, tranquilly. 

“ Violets? What violets?” asked the other, with an unsuc- 
cessful effort to appear indifferent. 

“ Those in your room. They scent the house. Love and a 
fire can not be hid, neither can violets.” 

“ They were given me by the ladies of Arden,” Edward ex- 
plained, with an embarrassed and almost apologetic air. 

Really?” replied Paul, in dulcet tones. Then he rose and 
walked to the closet which contained the skeleton, and open- 
ing the door, shook his fist at the grinning skull within, utter- 
ing in a low tone the sole word “ Damnation!” Then he re- 
turned to the fireside much refreshed, and quite unnoticed by 
his cousin, whose slight natural powers of observation were 
now totally obscured by the circumstance of his having fallen 
head over ears in love. 

The cousins did not go to Arden next day, but on the fol- 
lowing day the Rickmans dined with the Annesleys, and all, 
excepting Gervte, arrived early in the afternoon, making the 
house, according to their custom, their head-quarters while 
carrying on an extensive shopping campaign. 

Perhaps it was odd that Edward Annesley, who was ostensi- 
bly playing billiards at the club opposite the Berlin-wool shop, 
should, after long reconnoitering at the window, bethink him 
that Mrs. Annesley had lamented having come to the end of 
her knitting-cotton and straightway sally forth and enter the 
fancy-work shop, where he appeared as much surprised to find 
the Arden ladies as they were to see him. 

“I want — ah#— some cotton — to knit with,” he Explained, 
in answer to the shopwoman, when Sibyl told him that she 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


59 


had thought knitting as a means to kill time was confined to 
the lower ranks of the army, and was not affected by officers. 

‘‘Officers/"' he replied, with solemnity, “are always de- 
lighted to be useful — when they can. ” 

“ A capital proviso,^^ replied Sibyl. “ 1 should have thought 
being ornamental exhausted their energies. 

“ Do not heed that mad girl, said Alice, smiling indulgent- 
ly; “ she is out for a holiday. 

But he heard a great many more teasing remarks that af tei;- 
noon from Sibyl, whose grace and dainty manner carried her 
safely through much that in others might have seemed pert, 
and the end of it was that Paul, who came in to tea on purpose 
to meet the Arden ladies, was scandalized to see the two 
younger walking leisurely up the street, accompanied by his 
cousin, laden with books from the library. 

Mrs. Annesley laughed till the tears stood in her eyes when 
she heard of her nephew^s civility in buying cotton for her; 
but Paul looked very grim, and watched him closely all the 
evening. 

Edward sung to SibyPs accompaniment, and turned her 
leaves for her when she sung, and then he sat by her side and 
talked; while Alice played to Gervase^s violin, and the elders, 
including the watchful Paul, played whist. 

No word or movement on Aliceas part escaped Edward’s 
notice; but something which was partly the chivalrous delicacy 
of deep feeling, and partly the perverse fate which besets 
lovers, made him careful to conceal his interest in her, and ap- 
pear more occupied with Sibyl, whom he cordially liked. 
Thus Paul was put on a wrong scent, and was more genial to 
him that night than he had ever been. 

“ Sibyl is undoubtedly the attraction,” he thought. 

o 

FART IL 


CHAPTER I. 

APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

A FEW weeks after Edward Annesley left Medington, which 
he did without again meeting the Manor family, Paul unex- 
pectedly arrived at the garrison town in which he was quar- 
tered, and spent some days with him, in a dejected frame of 


60 THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 

mind. Before returning to Medington, he reminded Edward 
of his promise, given on his first evening at Medington, to the 
effect that he would not spoil his chance of success at Arden 
Manor, which the latter renewed, laughing at his cousin’s 
seriousness. Paul then spoke of his wishes with regard to 
Alice Lingard, whose name he did not mention, and of the 
pecuniary diflSculties which prevented him from asking her to 
marry him. But he did not say that he was actually in debt, 
having lost heavily through running Diana in a steeplocliase, 
nor did he say that he was in the habit of associating with men 
of ample means, notably the Highland officers to whom Cap- 
tain Mcllvray had introduced him, and scaring in amusements 
that he could not afford. 

“ Don’t you think,” Edward said, “ that your mother would 
furnish funds for the marriage? She nj^ust know that mar- 
riage is an advantage to a doctor, and she is very fond of 
you.’^ 

“ She is the best of mothers; hut she would never see that 
we could not all live under one roof. And I would never sub- 
ject any girl to that. The fact is,” he broke out after a 
gloomy pause, ‘^ my life is wretched. But when I think of 
tier ” — here his face changed and a soft fire kindled in his eyes 
— it is all different; there is something to live for. It is 
maddening that I dare not speak yet. Heaven only knows 
when I shall be in a position to do so, and in the meantime 
there she is in her youth and beauty exposed to the attentions 
of every chance comer. And it can not go on forever. I hate 
every man who goes to that house; 1 feel that unless I am 
quick, the fated man must come at last. 1 tell you, Ned, it 
is the torture of hell.” 

His cousin advised him to end his suspense at once. “ You 
stand upon a fanciful punctilio, Paul,” he said, ‘‘ and for that 
you may spoil her life as well as your own. Speak to her, and 
ask her to wait for you. You have a profession and a fair 
start in it, not to speak of the Gledesworth contingency, and 
hope will give you courage to win your way. If she loves you, 
she will be glad to wait; and if she does not, why, the 'sooner 
you know it the sooner you will get over it and form other 
ties.” 

“ Get over it!” cried Paul, looking up. ‘‘ A man does not 
get over such a passion as this. Certainly not a man of my 
taste. Why, only to see her is heaven, and to be without her, 
hell. The Mowbrays never do anything by halves.” 

“Then do not do this by halves,” returned Edward, 
cheerily. “ Lay siege to her affections at once, and make up 


THE REPROACH OF AKHESLET. 


61 


your mind to \rin her. And if you had not a penny in the 
world, is it a light thing to offer a heart like yours? I hear 
men talk of women, and I hear them speak of their sweet- 
hearts and wives, but 1 never hear men speak as you do. I 
believe, Paul, that a deep and serious passion is a very rare 
gift from Heaven. And I believe there is nothing like it in 
the whole world. Nothing so lifts a man from earth and re- 
veals heaven to him, nothing so makes him hate and despise 
his meaner self, nothing — 

* “By Jove,^^ interrupted Paul, with a genial laugh, “the 
youngster has got the complaint himself!’^ 

Edward replied that he might take a worse malady, and 
reiterated his advice with regard to decisive measures, and they 
parted, Edward marveling at PauPs dejection and discontent. 

He did not know how deeply Paul had yearned for a military 
life and what it had cost him to obey his mother’s wishes in 
renouncing it, nor did he know why Paul had taken that little 
holiday and fled to Portsmouth. It was because the demon 
had once more entered into Mrs. Annesley. 

“ What a sweet woman dear Mrs. Annesley is!” the curate’s 
wife was saying at the Dorcas meeting on the very afternoon 
of PauPs flight. “ I wonder what keeps her away from us to- 
day?” 

She little dreamed that it was the devil himself. 

It was now mid- April, and at last there was respite from the 
bitter sting of the east wind; every day seemed more lovely 
than its fellow; in warm still nights, from the copses by the 
brook, the passionate music of nightingales arose, breaking 
the deep, charmed silence and echoing through the dreams of 
sleepers in Arden Manor. No one ever referred to their chance 
visitor of the early spring except Ellen Gale, who, when Alice 
paid her accustomed visits, would sometimes allude to the 
voice they had heard singing past the window. “ And you 
were right, miss; you said it was a gentleman’s voice,” she 
often repeated. 

“ Yes, Ellen, and the voice of a good man,” Alice would 
reply. “ There is so much in a voice.” 

“ Yes, miss; yours quiets me down my worst days.” 

Alice and Sibyl were in the music-room on one of these 
golden afternoons, surrounded by books, easels, and other 
evidences of their daily employments. Sibyl’s cat was coiled 
on the wide cushioned windqw-seat beneath the opened lattice, 
through which a flood of sunshine poured; the deer-hound lay 
stretched on a bearskin beneath it, sleeping with one eye, and 


62 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 

with the other lazily watching his mistress, wlio sat listlessly at 
the piano, improvising in minor keys. 

The melancholy of spring was upon Alice, that strange com- 
pound of unspeakable feelings; the strenuous life of the nat- 
ural world, its beauty and its melody stirred depths in her 
heart that she was too young to understand, when some bird- 
note came with unexpected passion upon the silence, she felt 
as if her heart were being torn asunder and the old orphaned 
feeling of her childhood rushed back upon her. The simple 
interests of her quiet life now failed her, former occupation^ 
grew stale, there was a hardness and want of she knew not 
what in the brilliant sunshine and cloudless sky. She won- 
dered if after all it were true that life, to all but the very 
youMg, is a gray and joyless thing. Hitherto the future had 
seemed so full of dim splendor, so prSgnant with bright possi- 
bility, all of which had unaccountably faded. 

As she sat at the instrument playing dreamy music she 
mused upon that day of transient spring, set like a pearl in a 
long row of chill, sullen days, when she sat busied with her 
flowers in the oriel and the door opened and Edward Annesley 
appeared. What a bright world it was into which he stepped! 
How long it seemed since then! He had vanished out of their 
life as quickly as he had entered it; no one ever mentioned 
him now. ' Perhaps he would never come again. 

The thought struck chill to Aliceas heart, the color faded 
from her face, while the music died away beneath her nerve- 
less fingers. 

After a brief pause she began to play again, and sung with 
Sibyl the following duet: 

“ The Coming. 

‘ ‘ The daisies fall a-tremble 
And bow beneath his feet, 

As they would fain dissemble 
Their joy his eyes to meet; 

“ The daisies fell a-tremble, 

Their tips with crimson glowed, 

When they hastened to assemble 
In troops to line his road; 

“ The roses hang to listen 

From the brier across the way 
Where the morning dews still glisten, 

For the first words he shall say; 

“ And the little breezes, bringing 

Song and scent and feathered seed, 

Are glad to waft his singing 
Across the sunny mead. 


THE HEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 63 

‘ ‘ lie can not heed the daisies, 

The roses or the breeze; 

He is here — among the mazes 
Of the orchard’s friendly trees.” 

They sung the first four verses to an even-fiowing melody in 
a major key, but the last to a more powerful measure, accom- 
panied by minor chords which resolved themselves into exultant 
major harmonies to burden the phrase “ he is here,^^ which 
was taken up alternately by the two voices and repeated by 
them in different musical intervals in the manner of a fugue, 
so that the words he is here flew hither and thither, and 
chased each other above the harmony in a rapture that seemed 
as if it would never end, until the last lines rounded off the 
song in a joyous melody with major harmonies. Scarcely had 
they made a silence, through which the song of a blackbird 
pulsed deliciously from the orchard hard by, when they were 
startled by the sound of a man s voice crying, “ Thank you/^ 
from beneath the window. 

Hubert started up with pricked ears, and the two girls went 
to the open lattice and looked out. J ust beneath the window 
on the broad turf walk was a garden-seat lightly shaded by a 
tall apple-tree, leafless to-day, but ethereally beautiful with 
crimson buds and delicate open blossoms of shell-like grace, 
which outlined the boughs in purest red and white on the 
pale-blue sky. Sitting there was Mrs. Rickman, and standing 
by her side, looking upward with a spray of the blossoms just 
touching his crisp-curled hair, was Edward Annesley. 

Alice flushed brightly; Sibyl turned pale. 

Hubert stood beside his mistress, almost as tall as she, with 
his paws on the window-sill, and wagged his tail with a whine 
of joyous recognition; then, in his language, he courteously 
requested the ladies to descend and welcome the new-comer. 

‘‘We were half afraid to speak, the latter said. “ Do, 
please, go on singing. 

But the singers were effectually silenced, and presently came 
into the garden, and chairs were fetched and a genial circle 
formed beneath the glancing shadows of the apple-tree. 

“Mr. Annesley has walked seven miles to see us,^' Mrs. 
Rickman said; “ we must make him welcome. 

“You are welcome, Mr. Annesley,’^ Alice replied, with her 
exquisite smile and tranquil voice. 

“Oh! yes; we are glad to see you,” added Sibyl, in her 
light treble; “it is not every day that people trouble them- 
selves to walk seven miles to see us.” 

Then Edward said that he would not have accepted his in- 


64 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


vitation to stay with his friends, had they not lived within a 
walk of Arden, and as soon as he had said it, he knew that he 
had gone too far, and every one except Mrs. Eickman, who 
had a happy knack of seeing nothing that was not delightful, 
saw it too. 

“ Then,^^ asked this innocent lady, “ why not spend a few 
days with us?^’ This was exactly what he longed to do, but 
he was too confounded by his bare-faced hint to reply at first. 
“ What a clown she must think me!’^ was his inward reflec- 
tion. 

Then Mr. Eickman came out with the half-waked air with 
which he usually regarded the outer world, and having with 
difficulty detached his mind to some extent from the considera- 
tion of a human bone, that was probably pre-Adamite, and 
fixed it on his guest, added his hospitable entreaties to those of 
Mrs. Eickman. Finally it was decided that Annesley should 
take up his quarters there and then at the Manor, sending a 
messenger, with explanations, for his portmanteau. 

Alice looked down on Hubert, whose graceful head lay on 
her knee during this discussion; but Edward watched her face 
and thought he saw a pleased look steal over it when the de- 
cision was finally reached, and just then she looked up and 
met his earnest gaze, and all the beauty of the spring rushed 
into these two young hearts. 

In the meantime Paul Annesley, who had now recovered 
from the temporary despondency which drove him away from 
home, was enjoying that lovely April afternoon with the in- 
tensity that he was wont to throw into his likes and dislikes, 
and was at that very moment driving along the dusty high- 
road as fast as the Admiral could trot, in the direction of 
Arden. A set of archery materials had arrived at the Manor, 
and he had received instructions to come over as soon as he 
could find time, to help the ladies learn shooting; not that he 
waited for invitations to that house, but a valid excuse for 
wasting an hour there was extremely pleasant. He drove out 
into the stable-yard on reaching the Manor, and, hearing that 
the family were all in the garden, took his way thither without 
ceremony, and when he issued from the dark yew walk which 
opened into the lowest terrace saw a tableau which struck him 
dumb. 

At the top of the long and broad turf walk was a target; 
down against the house stood Alice in the act of drawing a 
bow, her hands being placed in the right position by Edward, 
whom he had every reason to suppose miles away. Sibyl, lean- 
ing upon a bow at some distance, was looking on, and teasing 


THE RRPEOACii OF ANXESLEY. 


65 


Alice for lier want of skill. Mr. and Mrs. Rickman were 
watching the scene from beneath the apiDle-tree, and Hubert, 
sitting very straight on his tail, was gazing intently before 
him, evidently turning over in his mind whether he ought to 
permit so great a liberty to be taken with his mistress. Alice 
drew her bow, the arrow flew singing toward the target, the 
extreme edge of which it just grazed. Edwaixl uttered a word 
of applause, which Sibyl joyously echoed; nobody heard PauRs 
quick footfall upon the turf walk, except Hubert, who rose 
and thrust his muzzle into his hand, so that he stood for some 
moments silently watching the progress of the game with a 
deadly conviction that he was not wanted there. Perhaps Ed- 
ward looked a little guilty when he saw his cousin, and took 
some quite needless trouble to explain how he came to be there, 
but perhaps it was only PauPs fancy. 

“ You have been before me, Ned,'’^ he said, after he had 
been duly welcomed, and in reply to these labored explana- 
tions; “ 1 came to start .the shooting. You appear to be a 
past-master in the craft. 

“ Oh! yes. We have a good deal of archery. I believe you 
are a good shot. Now we can have a regular match. 

But PauPs pleasure in the pastime was gone, he scarcely 
knew why. He had a 'great mind to go away and say he was 
engaged, but on reflecting that this vengeance would fall only 
on himself, thought better of it and remained, apparently in 
the hai^piest mood. 


CHAPTER II. 

ARCHERY. 

“ And what do ^eni call this yere sport asked Raysh 
Squire, who was helping the gardener in an extra spell of work 
at a little distance from the archers, and, having now finished 
setting in a row of young plants along a taut string, was paus- 
ing to contemplate his work with an admiring eye. “ Zimple 
it looks; mis’able zimple. 

“ Archadry, they calls it,^ replied Jabez, finishing his own 
line of plants, and unbending his body slotvly till he reached 
his normal height; calls it archadry, along o^ doing it nigh a 
archard. Poor sport, I Tows; give me skittles or quoits.'’^ 

“ ^Tis poor sport, Jabez,^^ returned Raysh, impressively, 
“ vur the likes of we. But I hreckon it^s good enough vur 
gentry. Mis^able dull they be, poor things, to be zure. My 
wuld ’ooman, she sez to me, ‘ Lard, how I pities they poor gen- 
tlefolk, Raysh, ^ she sez; ‘ vorced to zet wi^ claiie hands from 


66 


THE EEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


morniug to night athout zo much as a bit of vittles to hready,^ 
she sez. Terble hard putt to they be to beat out the time 
athout siling their hands. Archadry ^s good enough vur they, 
Jabez Young. But give me a gaame of bowls and a mug of 
harvest ale. "" And Eaysh majestically bent his long body till 
he reached his line of spring, which -he pulled uj^ and j^osted 
further on, when he dibbled a second row of holes along its 
course, Jabez, a stout fellow in the prime of life, looking on 
admiringly till Eaysh was half-way down his row, when it oc- 
curred to him to pull up his own line and post it afresh. 

“ I dunno,^^ Jabez observed, when he had planted half this 
line, “ but what I^d as zoon hae nothen to do mezelf.^^ 

“ Ah, you duimo what's good vor 'ee," returned Eaysh, 
with tolerant contempt; you ain't never ben tried that way, 
Jabez; your calling is entirely gineral. So zoon as you putts 
zummat into ground, zummat comes out on't, and you never 
zefcs down, zo to zay. Now buryen 's entirely different. " 

‘‘ You med zay zo, Eaysh .Squire-," said Jabez; “ what you 
putts into ground bides a powerful long time there, I 'lows." 

“ I 'lows it do, Jabez, when putt in in a eddicated way. 
I've a-knowed they as turns over coffins what ain't more than 
a score o' years old. Buryen' of mankind, Jabez Young, is a 
responsive traiide; 'tain’t everybody, niind, what's equal to it. 
You med take your oath of that. You minds when the queen 
zent vor me to Belminster about that there bigamy job, when 
Sally White vound out Jim had had two missuses aready? 
Passun and me sweared we married 'em regular. Pretty nigh 
drove me crazy, that did. There they kept me two martial 
days athout zo much as a bell to pull or a church to clane. 
Two martial days 1 bid about they there streets till I pretty 
nigh gaped my jaws out o' jint. I'd a give vive shiln if I 
could a brought my church and church- yard along wi' me, or 
had ar a babby to christen, or so much as a hrow of taties to 
dig. ‘ Missus,' I sez to the ooman what kept the house we 
bid in, ‘ wullee let me chop a bit o' vire-ood vor ee? I be 
that dull,' I zes. ‘ Iss, that I ool!' she zes. ‘ And the moor 
you chops the better you'll plaze me,' she zes, and she laffed, 
I 'lows that ooman did laff. Zimmed as though I'd a lost 
mezelf. ‘ AVhere's Eaysh Squire?' I zimmed to zay inzide o’ 
mezelf all day long. But zo zoon as I heft that ar chopper, I 
zimmed to come right agen. ‘ I minds who I be now,' zes I. 
‘ I be Eaysh Squire, clerk and zexton o' Arden Perish, ay, 
that I be,' and dedn't I chop that ar ooman 's ood!" 

“I never ben to Belminster; mis'able big plaiice, beant it?" 

“ Big enough, but terble dull; nothen to zee but shops and 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


67 


churches over and over agen. Jim White, he took me along 
to zee the place. We went and gaped at the cathedral; power- 
ful big he was — I ^lows youM stare if you zeen he. Jim, he 
shown me a girt vield wi^ trees in it outside of ^en, and girt 
houses pretty nigh so big as the Manor yender all hround. 

‘ Tliis here^s the Close, ^ he zes. ‘ But where be the beiistes?^ 
zes I. ‘ Beiistes?^ a zes. ‘ Goo on wi^ ye, ye girt zote,^ a zes; 
‘ there baint no beiistes in this yer Close. •’Tis passuns they 
keeps here, taint beastes!’ Zure enough, there was passuns 
gwine in and out o’ they hcmsen, and a girt high wall all 
hround to pen ’em in. Ay, they keeps ’em there avore they 
makes ’em into bishops,” he explained, with a magnificent air 
of wisdom, fully justified in this instance by his ecclesiastical 
profession. Jabez refiected while he slowly digested this piece 
of information. 

The old-fashioned garden lay on a slope, the vegetable por- 
tion being only separated from the flower-borders on either 
side the broad turf walks which intersected it by espalier fruit- 
trees, now studded with the crimson silk balls of the apple, or 
veiled with the fragrant snow of the pear, so that the archery- 
party on the turf were well seen by the laborers on the soil, 
and vice versa. Jabez went on planting another row in medi- 
tative silence, until an unusually wild shot from Sibyl sent an 
arrow over the flower-border, through some lines of springing 
pease, into a potato-bed, when he stopped and called out in 
loud reproof: 

“You med so well hae the pegs in if you be gwine on like 
that there,” he growled, when he had found the arrow and 
brought it back; “the haulm’s entirely broke. Miss Sibyl, 
that ’tes.” 

“Never mind, Jabez,” she replied, soothingly, “it is the 
first time;” and she added something about wire netting. 

“ Vust time!” he grumbled, returning to his cabbages. 
“ A onbelieven young vaggot! I never zee zuch a mayde vur 
mischief. Miss Alice, she never doos like that. ” 

“ Ay, Jabez Young, Miss Alice is a vine-growed mayde and 
well mannered as ever I zee,” returned Eaysh, “ but she’s 
powerful high. She does well enough Zundays and high-days 
when there’s sickness or death, but I ’lows she’s most too high 
vur work-a-days. Give me t’other one work-a-days. ” 

“ Ay, Kaysli, you was always zet on she.” 

“ I war’nt I was. I war’nt 1 be terblezet on that ar mayde, 
I be. I mindt her no bigger than six penneth o’ hapence, a 
jumping into a grave alongside o’ dear wuld Eaysh, a-hiding 
from her governess; well I minds she. I couldn’t never abide 


68 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


buoys, but that ar mayde, I was terble zet on she. I war’nt I 
was. She caint do nothun athout Raysh, ’tes Raysh here and 
Raysh there. She^s growed up mis'able pretty. All the 
young chaps is drawee! after she, toother one’s too high vor 
’em. She ain’t vur work -a -days. Miss Alice ain’t. She 
thinks a powerful dale of me, too, do Miss Alice, she always 
hev a looked up to me, zame as Miss Sibyl there. Never plays 
nothen on the organ, athout I likes. It’s ‘ How do that goo, 
Raysh?’ or ‘ Baint that slow enough, Raysh?’ Ay, they thinks 
a powerful lot of me, they maydes. ” 

“ Miss Alice is the prettier spoke,” said Jabez. ‘‘Ah! 
there goes that young vaggot again! Hright athirt my beans! 
Take ’em all hround, I ’lows you won’t find two better-man- 
nered young ladies than ourn in all the country-zide. ” 

“ I war’nt you want, Jabez Young, or two what shows more 
respect to they as knows better than theirselves. 1 never 
wouldn’t hae no zaace vrow ’em when they was little. A 
power o’ thought I’ve a giv’ to they maydes’ manners, to be 
zure, a power of thought. Mr. Gervase too, as onbelievin’ a 
buoy as ever I zee, and that voreright he couldn’t hardly hold 
hisself together, and a well-spoken young vellow he’s growed 
up. Our Mr. Horace won’t be nothen to he. Passun he 
spared the hrod and I ’lows he’ve a spiled child, as is hwrote 
in the Bible. ” And he bent over the fragrant earth again 
with a slow smile of complacency extending the wrinkles of 
his face laterally, unconsciously cheered as he worked by the 
merry call of a cuckoo, the melody of the song-birds, the voices 
of the archers and the frequent and musical laugh of Sibyl. 

“ There -never was such a mayde for laughen!” Raysh ob- 
served of his favorite, “ that open-hearted!” 

Alice laughed more rarely, though she, too, could laugh 
musically. It is odd that only women and children laugh 
gracefully; grown men, if they venture beyond a restrained 
chuckle, bluster out into an absurd crowing falsetto or a dee]^ 
blatant haw-haw, infectious, mirth-provoking, but utterly un- 
dignified. Gervase Rickman knew this, and since the loss of 
his boy-voice had not laughed aloud, except at public meet- 
ings, when he produced an ironical laugh of practiced excel- 
lence, which was calculated to discomfit the most brazed-nerved 
speaker. When he came home that evening and heard his sis- 
ter’s pretty laugh wafted across the sunny flowery garden, 
amid the music of the blackbirds and the cooing of the far-olf 
doves, something in it — it may have been the certainty that it 
was too joyous to last, it may have been the tragic propinquity 
of deep joy to sorrow — touched his heart with vague pain. 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


69 


Fot Sibyl was the darling of his heart; he was proud of her 
beauty and talents, and cherished for her schemes and visions 
which he was too wise to give voice to. 

lie too was dismayed at the unexpected apparition of the 
younger Annesley, but he did not realize the full horror of the 
situation, since he naturally concluded that he had come in 
Paul’s train, and would leave with him before long. 

He declined to shoot, with the remark that lookers-on see 
most, and sat beneath the apple-tree with his father, on whom 
tlie pleasantness of ^the scene and the unusual beauty of the 
day had prevailed over the charms of the pre-Adamite bone for 
an hour or two, and his mother, who had fallen completely 
into the womanly groove of enjoying life at second-hand. 

Though they looked upon the same scene, the son and the 
parents saw each a different picture. It was a pleasant scene 
in its way. The old-fashioned garden, with its bands of deep 
velvet turf, its fairy troops of tail narcissus drawn up in the 
borders, their slender green lances firmly poised, their shining 
llower-faces turned as if in sympathy with their youth and 
beauty to the young people near them; with the evening sun- 
beams touching the living snow of pear and cherry on the net- 
work of fruit-trees in blossom with a glow as ethereal as that 
which departing day kindles on Alpine summits; and with the 
stern gray ridge of the downs outlined against the sky in the 
background. The square massive tower catching the warm 
sunlight on the right, and the dark firs, darker by contrast 
with the bright sky, on the left, made a pretty setting for the 
group of archers on the green beneath the crimson apple- 
bloom. Such was the actual picture, but Heaven only knows 
what Gervase saw besides. 

Nor could any one guess what visions, hopes, ambitions and 
restless schemes passed through his busy brain as he strolled 
about with a tranquil, thoughtful air. Nor did any one sus- 
pect the less vehement ambition, though not less vehement 
passion, concealed by the smile upon Paul’s scarred face, and 
hashing fitfully in his dark-blue eyes, the occasional spasms of 
anguish that tore him and the struggle that raged within him, 
or the deep feeling that gave Edward’s features a more 
spiritual beauty, or The vestal flame of unconscious passion 
that burned on the altars of the two girls’ hearts. 

Alice had forgotten her recent melancholy, and when she 
remembered it later, thought it only natural that the arrival 
of an unexpected guest and the interest of the archery should 
disperse the temporary cloud and put her in unusual spirits, 
while Sibyl, who was more introspective and who sometimes 


70 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


rebelled against the monotony of their simple life, was con- 
scious of a tranquil expectancy that cast a glamour over every- 
thing and gave the very apple-blossoms a new beauty. 

The few words which passed between Edward and Paul An- 
nesley that night were of such a nature that the former came 
to the conclusion that something must have disagreed with the 
doctor. But indigestion is not the direst scourge of luuuanity. 
Jealousy is far more painful. 

Not that the unfortunate young man yielded to it. His bet- 
ter nature revolted against it. He reflected on Edward^s 
promise and on his admiration of Sibyl, and succeeded for a 
time in stifling the flame of this uncomfortable passion, when 
a trivial incident made the smoldering fire blaze up with 
redoubled fury. 

Alice, wearing some narcissus in her dress, was bending to 
pick up her glove, when she dropped a flower without perceiv- 
ing it. Edward, who was just behind her, stooped as she 
passed on, and, with a rapid dexterity which must have baffled 
any but the Argus eyes of jealousy, cau'ght the flower up and 
hid it in his coat, occupied apparently all the time in spring- 
ing a bow. 

Only Paul saw the flower episode; he saw and felt and 
turned pale, a symptom of mental perturbation which did not 
escape Gervase Eickman, who pondered upon it. 

Gnawed as he was by these jealous feelings, Paul could not 
tear himself from the scene which constantly renewed his 
sufferings, but lingered till the twilight, when it was still so 
warm that Gervase^s violin was brought out and part-songs 
were sung, till a nightingale began its golden gurgle hard 
by and charmed them all into silence. 

Perhaps it was something in Sibyl’s face, upturned with a 
rapt look toward the ruddy mass of apple-bloom, as she listened 
to the splendid song, which enlightened her brother^ and so 
wrought upon him that he drew his bow fiercely across the 
strings of the violin, and using a minor key, played with such 
pathos that it seemed as if he were touching the sensitive 
chords of his own heart and thus wrought upon those of his 
listeners. He knew now why Sibyl was so deeply interested 
in military things and made such martial poems, why she had 
inquired specially into the functions of artillery and the degree 
of peril to which artillery officers are exposed when in action, 
and he saw through the innocent artifice which assigned rea- 
sons for this sudden interest and made her avoid the most 
casual reference to one particular artillerist. Then he thought 
of Edward’s evident admiration for Sibyl, and the attentions 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


71 


he had paid her, and resolved that Edward should marry her, 
a consummation that, as he thought, his strong will and subtle 
brain could certainly bring about. There was nothing on 
earth so dear to him as SibyEs happiness, he imagined, scarce- 
ly even his own; and his melodies grew wilder and more heart- 
piercing, as he thought these things. 

“I never remember such weather for April,^^ Sibyl said 
later, feeling vaguely that a day so exceptional could not bo 
repeated. 

“ There has been no such April since yoii were born,^^ her 
father replied. “ Too good to last. ” 

Yet it lasted through the three idyllic days that Edward 
Annesley spent at Arden. 


CHAPTER III. 

SUHSET OH ARDEN DOWN. 

Passing footsteps were so rare on the lonely road which led 
past the Travelers' Rest, that it was scarcely possible for any 
to go unheard by at least one of the inmates of that solitary 
dwelling. Ellen Gale had listened for them as a break in 
life's monotony when in health and actively employed, and 
now in the long solitary silences of her fading life, they had 
become the leading events of day and night, and much prac- 
tice had taught her to discriminate them with such nicety that 
she could tell from their peculiar ring on the hard road 
whether they were those of youth or age, man or woman, gen- 
tle or simple. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon there would 
be a double footfall, light, yet lingering, and she knew that 
sweethearts were passing, and wondered what the end of their 
wooing might be. And then at times some memory stabbed 
her to the heart, and she turned her face to the wall. 

“ Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio 
Meno costoro — ” 

cried Dante, his pity mingled with something akin to envy, 
when he met the lovers of Rimini, united forever in the terri- 
ble tempestuous hell, whither so many sweet thoughts had 
brought them. 

Sitting at the window one bright April evening, Ellen heard 
the heavy, dragging steps of a laboring man whose youth was 
worn out of him, and she knew by their ring on the road that 
they were those of Daniel Pink, the shepherd. 

Ydh goo oji, Eln,"’ cried her father, skeptically, when she 
told him who was coming, “ you caint tell by the sound." 


72 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


“ I war^nt she cm/’ corrected Mam Gale^, Jacobis mother, 
who was moving about before the hearth-fire, busy with iron- 
ing, “ terble keen of hearing she be, to be zure/^ 

Ellen smiled with innocent triumph when she perceived the 
weather-beaten form of the shepherd turn in at the wicket, 
and clank with a heavy angular gait over the large flints with 
which the court was pitched, followed by his shaggy dog. 

“ Ay, here ee be, zurely, Jacob,^^ said Mam’ Gale, looking 
up from her ironing with a slow smile. Come on in, Dan^l,^^ 
she added, raising her voice to a shrill pitch. How be ye?” 

Evening,’^ said the shepherd, stumbling heavily over the 
flagged floor of the kitchen, and dropping himself on to a set- 
tle by the fire, while Jacob Gale, briefly acknowledging his 
entrance by a sullen nod, and a “ Warm s^evenin,'’^ kept his 
seat on the opposite side of the fire, and smoked on. 

“ How d^ye zim, Eln?^^ asked the shepherd, after some 
minutes^ silence, during which the click of Mam Gale^s iron 
and the song of the kettle on the fire were heard. 

Ellen replied cheerfully that she was better, wonderfully bet- 
ter, and hoped to get out in a day or two; and she looked 
yearningly out of the window, where she could see the blue 
sky and some martins, who were busy building a nest in the 
thatched eave above with much happy twittering and fuss. 

“Ah!^’ growled her father, shaking his head, ‘'they be 
allays like that in a decline, when they be took for death. 

“ Ay,^’ cried Mam Gale, lugubriously, “poor things, they 
thinks they be pretty nigh well; toward the end they perks 
up. The many I Ve zeen goo, shepherd. 

“ Ellen med get up May hill,"' added Jacob, thoughtfully. 
“ If she do, Annesley zays she med last on droo the summer." 

“ She's took for death, Nellie is," said Reuben, lounging 
in, dropping himself languidly upon a bench, and looking hard 
at his sister, who listened with a tranquil smile. 

“ When be ye gwine to 'Straylia, Reub?" asked the shep- 
herd. 

“ Baint gwine avore Ellen's took," he replied. 

“And he baint agwine then, Dan'l," added Mam Gale, 
suspending her ironing. “ What call have he to goo vlying in 
the vailce o' Providence, when's time's come vor 'n to goo? 
Downright wicked I calls it. " 

“ Well, Annesley zes Reub 'll hae to goo long wi' t 'others 
if he bides at home, mother," said Jacob, doubtfully. 

“ Zims as though you med zo well hae a chance to live, 
Reub," suggested the shepherd, taking the tankard. Reuben 
brought him, and applying his bearded face to it; after which 


THE EEPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


73 


he paused, smacking his lips and pondering deeply upon the 
flavor of the draught before venturing upon another. 

‘‘ If I^ve got to die, I med so well die at hoam,^^ returned 
Reuben, slowly; “not but 1 med so well live,"" he added, 
dubiously. 

- “ Let him go, father,"" said Ellen, “ there is no call for him 
to die. Miss Lingard"s known lots get well in Australia. 
Everything is different out there."" 

“ I med so well live,"" repeated Reuben, wistfully. 

“ Everyth! Ilk "s upside down out there,"" said Mam Gale, 
contemptuously; “ the minister he zes to me, ee zes, volks 
walks along head downward over there, ee zes. "" 

“ And that"s what William Black zes, zure enough,"" echoed 
Jacob, solemnly, “ "s brother went out "Straylia; ee zes as 
how the zun hrises evening when volks wants to go to bed, and 
goes down agen mornings when "t is time to get up, out there."" 

“ 1 war"nt "tis a terble zart of a plaiice,"" added Reuben, 
mournfully. “ Christmas-time, Willum zes, "t is hotter than 
hot zummer weather."" 

“ Zo they zes,"" added Mam Gale, dubiously. “ Volk zays 
there"s winter right in the middle o" summer there./" 

“ That"s a big un to swallow,"" commented Jacob, rishig 
slowly and going to the hearth to knock the ashes out of his 
pipe. 

“ How do the earn grow if they gets winter weather in 
zurnmer-time?"" asked the shepherd, after profound medita- 
tion. 

Reuben doubtfully supposed that it grew in the winter, and 
silent meditation followed, broken only by Mam Gale"s reiter- 
ated assertions to the accompaniment of the clicking iron that 
“ volk med zo well be buried comfortable in Arden church 
lytten, as goo about head downward out there. "" 

“ A-ah!"" growled Jacob, before leaving the room to receive 
an approaching customer. “ I don"t hold wi" these yer new- 
fangled notions. Volk used to die natural deaths right zide 
uppermost in my youijg days. "" 

“ Zure enough, Reub,"" added his grandmother, “ we never 
yeard talk of "Straylia when I was a gal. Me and my vather 
we never went vurther than Medington in all our barn days. 
Vust time I went I was a ooman growed. I "lows I did stare 
when I zeed the shops and all the Johns and Molls in market 
hready to bargain.* Many a Middlemass I"ve a bin in Med- 
ington zence, but I war’nt I never stared that hard no more."' 


* To be hired for the year. 


74 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


“ My missus, observed tlie shepherd, seizing an oppor- 
tunity for which he had long been waiting, and diving deep 
into the recesses of his garments for something which he ex- 
tracted with difficulty, “ she ben in Medington to-day. She 
buyed these yet aranges vor ee, Eln.'’^ And he produced two 
large ripe oranges, for which Ellen thanked him heartily. 

“ i^m that thirsty after the cough, she said. 

“ My missus zeen ^em in Medington, and she minded JQ,” 
the shepherd said, apologetically, looking with a beaming face 
at the oranges, which from long propinquity to it were almost 
as warm as the good fellow's heart; “ 'tain't only dree pence, 
she zaid, and Ellen Gale med so well hae 'em when she can 
get 'em. Hreckon they're sweet." 

“ It was very kind," replied Ellen; and the shepherd sunk' 
into a pleased silence, and gazed steadily at the pretty fading 
girl and at the oranges on the window-sill before her beside 
the bunch of wall- flowers and polyanthus he had silently placed 
there on his entrance. 

Mis'ble zet on vlowers, my missus is," he continued. 
“ ‘ Let the vlowers bide longside of the taatie^' she zes, 
‘viewers don't ate nothing.' Taiities is viewer enough vur 
me." 

Flowers don't do here," Ellen said, “ it is too keen. The 
doctor says it’s too keen for me, but healthy for sound chestes. " 

“ Some thinks Doctor Annesley ain’t wold enough for his 
work," the shepherd said; “ Davis is the man for they." 

“ If Annesley ain't wold enough a'ready, he never will be, 
Dan'l Pink," retorted Mam Gale, with decision. “ He've a 
helped dree on us off. I don't hold with new-vangled things. 
Give me a doctor what hevzeen all ourvolksofi: comfortable." 

“ I hreckon Davis hev buried a tidy lot," urged the shep- 
herd in a controversial tone. “ Come to that, he and his 
vather avore un have helped so many under ground as Annes- 
ley and his vather put together." 

“Ah! you med talk, Dan’l Pink," retorted Mam Gale, toss- 
ing her ironed linen aside with scorn, “ but you wunt vind a 
cleverer dacter than ourn in a week o’ Sundays. 'S vather, 
wold Annesley, was cleverer drunk than any of t'others sober." 

“ You med well say that, mother," added Jacob, returning 
at that moment; “you minds when he come in one wet day 
and drinked a pint of best spirits straight off. Zes to me, 
when he went away, he zes, ‘ Don't you never marry a ooman 
with a tongue, Jacob Gale, or you med want to wet yourn with 
summat stronger than water.' Didn't zim no drunker than 
Dan'l there, that a didn't. " 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 75 

“ I never yeard the wold chap drinked avore/^ said Daniel, 
meditatively. 

“You med live to make wuld boans, Master Pink, and 
there med be a power o’ things left you never knowed,^"" com- 
mented Mam Gale, attacking one of Jacob's best shirts with a 
Virtuous fury that made her iron rattle loudly. “ There's a 
vast o' things to know in this ver world, I war'nt, let alone 
t’other. " 

“It wasn’t knowed, not to zay in a general way," added 
Jacob, “ 'wold chap knowed how to carr's liquor and a didn't 
drink reg'lar. Married the wrong ooman, that's where 
'twas." 

“ Ay, she was a vast too good vor ’n,” added Mam Gale; 

her family was high and her ways was high, and he knowed 
he wasn't the biggest man in 's own house. That's the way 
with men. They caint abide to be zecond best in-doors, 
whatever they med be out-doors." 

‘ ‘ Zure enough, a oomaii didn't ought to be better than a 
man, 'tain’t natural like," commented Jacob. “ It's agen the 
Bible; vur why? Eve yet the apple, and Adam he thought he 
med so well jine in." 

“ Let he alone vur that when ee zeen 'twas a hripe un," 
commented Mam Gale, severely. 

The shepherd was so struck by Jacob's observation, that he 
remained silently gazing at the window, through which the 
glories of an April sunset could be seen diffused over the wide 
reach of sky, for five full minutes, while his rough-coated dog, 
who had followed him in and lain tranquilly dozing at his feet, 
roused by the thoughtful look on his master’s face, sat up and 
watched him, hoping for a signal to move. 

While the shepherd gazed thus, he observed a change in 
Ellen’s face, which was just before him, framed by the scanty 
cotton window curtain, the wicker bird-cage above and the 
piece of sunlit green outside showing through the small panes 
■ — a change like that in the sky when the red flush of sunset 
spread across it a moment before, a brightening of hue and a 
sublimation of expression which filled him with awe. “ She’s 
a- thinking of kingdom come, where she's bound before long," 
he reflected. 

But it was a more tangible gladness, though it partook of 
the deepest charm of that undiscovered land, the joy in what 
is higher and dearer than self, which thus transfigured Ellen's 
pretty, hectic face; it was the sight of two figures whose out- 
lines were traced upon the pink-tiushed sky, two young figures 
followed by a stately deer-hound, which evidently followed an 


76 


THE EEPKOACH OF ANKESLEY. 


accustomed path; they talked as they went, their faces lighted 
with the changing rose-tints of the tranquil evening. 

“ Miss Lingard! so late! exclaimed Ellen. 

“ And young Mr. Annesley, visiting there long with her,^^ 
commented Reuben, rising and looking out. 

“ I hfeckon she’ve vound somebody to keep company with 
at last,-’^ added Mam Gale, comprehending the situation at a 
glance. “She haint somehow dra wed the chaps on avore. 
Personable she be and pleasant spoke as ever I known. But 
t’other one hevs all the sweethearts. Menvolk never knows 
what’s what.” 

Little did Alice imagine the construction that would be put 
upon this innocent evening stroll. Reuben’s disinclination, or 
rather that of his friends, to the emigration scheme Paul and 
Alice had arranged together, had been discussed in family con- 
clave that day, and Edward had again brought forward his 
suggestion that Reuben, if still sound, should enlist in an 
India-bound regiment and thus get the benefit of a few warm 
winters. Alice had just started to broach the subject that 
evening, when Sibyl suddenly suggested that Edward had bet- 
ter follow her, and thus explain clearly what he intended. 

“A capital idea,” added innocent Mrs. Rickman. “You 
will soon overtake her if you make haste.” 

He did not wait for a second bidding, and Alice had not 
crossed the first field before Edward was by her side. 

He was to leave Arden next morning, and the consciousness 
of this brought something into his manner that he would not 
otherwise have suffered. He spoke of his prospects, the 
earliest date at which he hoped to be promoted, and the 
chances of remunerative employment open to him, and Alice 
listened with a courteous attention, beneath which he hoioed 
rather than saw something warmer. He referred to the Swiss 
tour projected by the Rickmans for the autumn, and to his 
own intention, favored by Mrs. Rickman, of making the same 
tour at tlie same time, and they both agreed that, to make the 
oxcursion perfect, Paul, whose mother was to be of the party, 
should manage to be with them. 

Nothing more of a personal nature was said, but they each 
felt that this evening walk made a change in their lives, put- 
ting a barrier between all the days which went before and all 
that were to follow after. They strolled slowly along in the 
delicious air, pausing to see the purple hills dark against the 
translucent western sky, the coloring of which spread upward 
first gold, then primrose and pale green edged with violet, to 
clearest blue, just flecked by little floating clouds like cars of 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


77 


gold and pearl; pausing to look eastward across the plain to 
the line of gray-blue sea, and to listen to some deeper burst of 
melody from the woods and sky; pausing, above all, at the 
(dialk quarry, a mysterious melancholy place, haunted by 
legends and traditions. Standing, as they did, on the high- 
road leading past the wide entrance to it, they saw a broad 
level of white chalk, broken here and there by a milky pool, a 
small tiled hut and dark shadow-like spots, upon which a slow 
accretion of mold had encouraged a faint green growth, half 
moss, half grass, and surrounded by an almost semicircular 
wall of gray chalk cliff with a narrow, dark outline of turf, 
drawn with sharp accuracy between it and the sky. This cold, 
pale cliff was shaded and veined here and there, where no 
quarrying had been recently done^ by such beginnings of vege- 
tation as clouded the ground, and broken further by one or 
two black spots, which were caves, haunted by grewsome tradi- 
tions. Some ravens flew croaking from their holes in the cliff 
face with a grim effect, which the swallows darting about in 
the sunshine and the larks singing above could not wholly 
neutralize. 

Perhaps it was the sense of contrast between themselves and 
this desolate scene that made them linger in fascinated silence 
before it, and while they lingered, the light changed, the sink- 
ing sunbeams filled the sky with molten gold, and the rampart 
of cliff turned from ghastly gray to warm yellow; then it 
glowed deep orange, and at last it blushed purest rose. 

“ I shall never forget this,^-* Edward said, when they turned 
and he saw the face of Alice suffused with rose-light against 
the rose-red cliffs. 

A few more steps took them to the inn on the crest of the 
hill. The shepherd rose and left at their approach, and the 
new-comers entered the kitchen, which seemed dark after the 
brightness outside. Mam Gale^s figure loomed black against 
the fire-light behind her. Her wrinkled, bronzed face, sur- 
rounded by a white-frilled cap tied under her chin, beamed 
with welcome; her purple-veined, labor-darkened hands and 
arms, which were aways visible below the small plaid shawl 
pinned tightly over her bowed shoulders, ceased to ply the iron, 
as she came forward to hand chairs to the visitors. The dull 
glow from the hearth emphasized rather than dispersed the 
gloom of the low, smoke-browned kitchen, so that it was scarce- 
ly possible to . see even the shining crockery on the black oak 
dresser, the two great china dogs and brass candlesticks on the 
high chimney-piece and the gayly colored prints on the walls, 
and the eye turned with relief to the small window, where the 


78 


THE REPROACH OE AHNESLEY. 


fading light came through the tiny leaded panes upon the 
flowers and sleeping bird and centered itself on the face of 
Ellen, turned toward the sky as if awaiting a benediction, 
while the men’s faces were in shadow. Alice went to the win- 
dow and kissed Ellen’s too brightly tinted face, her own look- 
ing more healthy by contrast, and the sight of the two young 
women, illumined by the last fading rays of light, touched 
Edward deeply and made a picture that long afterward he 
liked to dwell upon. He remained silent, while Alice took the 
chair offered her and plunged at once into the subject of Eeu- 
ben’s enlistment, a proposal received at first with stupefied 
dismay. 

Mam Gale dropped thunder-struck upon a chair, regardless 
of the pile of freshly ironed ' caps she crushed beneath her. 
“ Our Hreub goo vur a soldier,” she cried, when her indigna- 
tion at last found voice; “ Hreub what never drinked nor done 
aught agen the Commandments! Our Hreuben ’list! We’ve 
a zeen a vast of trouble. Miss Lingard, but we never known 
disgrace avore!” 

Alice ventured to say that Mr. Annesley had broken no 
Commandments, as far as she knew, and that his friends were 
glad when he went for a soldier; to which Mam Gale replied 
with dignity that she wondered that Miss Lingard knew no 
better than to forget what Reuben owed to his position in life. 
“ ’Taint no harm vur gentlevolk, they can do without char- 
acters and hain’t no call to be respectable,” she said; ‘‘ but 
our Hreub, what have always looked to hisself, it do zim cruel 
to let he down. ” 

Jacob was too horrified to utter a word of remonstrance; 
but Ellen, whose imagination was fired by a vision of her 
brother in regimentals, went so far as to say that she had heard 
of respectable soldiers. Reuben eagerly corroborated her, and 
Jacob and his mother had so far recovered from the shock as 
to listen to Edward’s proposals, when the sound of wheels was 
heard, a vehicle stopped at the wicket, and Paul Annesley’s 
firm, quick steps struck the court-yard flints and stone pas- 
sage, and he came with cheery energy, unannounced, as usual, 
into the fire-lighted kitchen. 

“ Sorry I’m so late, Mam Gale, 1 was called out of my 
way. Ellen still up? That’s right, my lass;” he had pro- 
ceeded thus far, his hearty, mellow voice filling the kitchen 
with a breath of hope and health, when he became aware of 
the two figures seated near each other by the window, and he 
stopped, as if thunder-struck, a fiery spark flashing from his 
eyes. 


THE KEPKOACH OF AFTHESLEY. 


79 


‘‘We had better go/^ Alice said, turning to Edward, as 
she rose, after acknowledging PauEs entrance. ‘‘ Good-bye, 
Ellen, we must not take up the doctor^s time.'’’ 

There was something in this “ we ” that acted upon Paul 
like fire upon gunpowder, and he viciously ground his teeth. 

He assured them that there was no need for them to go, but 
they went, nevertheless, and he then stood before the window, 
talking to Ellen. He looked out into the violet dusk, watch- 
ing intently while the two figures lessened and finally disap- 
peared, and Ellen wondered at the strange look on the face, 
which she had only known hitherto full of kindness and good- 
humor, and at the preoccupied manner that made him ask the 
same questions over again. His visit was as brief as he could 
make it. An irresistible power drew him; he sprung quickly 
to his seat, and set the Admiral off at his best pace, but 
avoided the nearest way home, choosing that which led past 
Arden Cross. 

The fleeting glory was gone from the chalk quarry, which 
showed desolate in its pale gloom, and seemed a fit abode for 
specters. A figure springing up behind a heap of stones by 
the road made the Admiral shy violently, and though it proved 
to be only that of a loitering child, Thomas, the coachman, 
trembled all over and was bathed in a cold perspiration, for he 
knew that ghosts haunted the pit. As for his master, he j)un- 
ished the Admiral’s mistake with such severity that the horse 
tore down the hill like a whirlwind, jerking the light dog-cart 
from side to side, and obliging the frightened Thomas to cling 
on with his hands, while the white-heat of passion kept his 
master firm, so firm that he was able to turn his head aside 
and gaze steadily across the dewy hedge-rows at the two figures 
walking through the fields to the Manor, until the bend of the 
road hid them from his passionate gaze. 


CHAPTER IV. 

MESSRS. WHEWELL AHD RICKMAH. 

The streets of Medington were all alive one sunny spring 
morning. Men were busy in the market square placing hur- 
dles for sheep and pigs; shop-keepers were turning their wares 
out of dark recesses, and arranging them on the pavements, 
to the great discomfort of passengers; carts — laden with 
wicker baskets, whence issued mournful cackles and quacks of 
remonstrance from victims unconscious of their death-doom, 
and all sorts of country produce, including stout market-women 
— rolled slowly into the town, drawn by thoughtful horses. 


80 


THE llEPliOACII OF AHHESLEY. 


who ventured upon no step without first duly pondering its ad- 
visability; small flocks of meekly protesting yet docile sheep, 
and disorderly herds of loudly rebellious and recalcitrant pigs 
were beginning to enter the streets from divergent country 
roads; house-maids giving the bell-pulls an extra Sunday 
cleaning, loitered over their work, and looked uj) and clown 
the street, to catch sight of country friends; clerks and shop- 
men wished the day over and Sunday morning come with its 
quiet: it was a market-day, the least Sabbatical and most 
bustling of the seven. 

Daniel Pink was passing slowly along the High Street,^his 
little frightened flock bleating ancl panting ahead of him, and 
seizing every opportunity for blundering into false positions to 
an extent that almost deprived Rough, the dog, of reason in 
the passionate indignation it aroused in his shaggy breast. 
Daniel laid his crook in this direction and that, and spread out 
his arms and grunted to his four-footed lieutenant, and was so 
engrossed in taking his charges safely past the vehicles and 
pitfalls, in the shape of open doors through which they were 
eager to dart, that until he was some distance past he forgot 
to look as usual at Paul Annesley^s door, to see if cherry- 
cheeked Martha, his daughter, was on the lookout. Then he 
threw the bunch of flowers he had carried in for her with such 
accurate aim that she caught it just in time to prevent its 
striking the face of her master, who opened the door behind 
her, ancl to her dire confusion came out at that moment. 

“ Wall - flowers, Martha? Curious things to clean brass 
with, eh?/^ he said, with a good - tempered smile; and he 
stepped briskly down the street, his face darkening when he 
remembered the scene at the Traveler's Rest the night before. 

The shepherd had been thinking of the same scene as he 
came along. He had related the conversation to his wife on 
liis return to his lonely cottage, so that they had remained up 
beyond their usual hour talking over the dying fire; they 
would probably discuss the new light thrown upon Walter 
Annesley''’s character and that of his wife for weeks, and Mrs. 
Pi]ik would for many days declare in the same words her con- 
viction that it was better to die right side uppermost in Eng- 
land than to tempt Providence by journeying to a world in 
which everything was upside down, and the very Command- 
ments were by analogy reversed; while Daniel would as fre- 
cpiently observe that they raised a “ terble lot of sliip out 
there, that he had once known a steady youth who enlisted 
when crossed in love, and that Ellen might possibly see the 
harvest carried home. 


THE liEl’liOACH OF AHNESLEY. 


81 


After the last saying he would generally be silent for some 
time, wondering to what unknown land Ellen would journey 
tlien. A great part of Daniel Pink’s time was spent in won- 
dering; the few events of his own and other lives, however 
deeply pondered, upon, were soon exhausted, and then there 
were long lonely hours in sunshine and storm, on the wide, 
windy downs, under the shelter of a bent thorn or a wind- 
bowed hedge, in the silent nights when great flocks of stars 
passed in orderly procession over the vast black chasms of 
space above him, or the hurtling storm swept round him — long 
empty hours that had to be filled with thoughts and imagin- 
ings of some voiceless kind. And sometimes the musings of 
rough and simple shepherds are grander, and their unspoken 
sense of the mystery and beauty which infolds their obscure 
lives is deeper than we imagine. 

Gervase Rickman on his way to his office through the 
market, nodded condescendingly to the well-known weather- 
beaten figure standing among the pens. If he thought of him 
at all, it was as a slightly superior animal. Who expects to 
find a poet or a prophet beneath a smock-frock or fustian 
jacket? 

Gervase hurried along to his office, which stood just off the 
market square, full of thoughts, for the most part common- 
place, even sordid, principally concerning the business affairs 
of half the county. He was later than he intended to be, and 
found the day’s work in full swing when he stepped into the 
outer office, whose occupants suddenly became very diligent 
on his entrance. He took in every detail as he passed swiftly 
through, and sprung up the stairs to his own private room, 
followed by the white-headed clerk, who had been the confi- 
dential servant, and, by virtue of his service, master, of the 
firm of Whewell & Rickman before Gervase was born. 

The room had a bow- window, giving upon a street which 
crossed the High Street at right angles, and commanding a 
view of both these streets and the broad market-place at their 
junction. This window differed from those usual to law- 
yers’ offices because it was clean, and its transparent panes 
were obscured only to a moderate height by a wire blind, trans- 
parent to those within the rox>m, though opaque from without. 

Rickman’s desk was so f)laced, that while sitting at it he 
could, if so minded, observe all that was passing in the focus 
of town life beneath this window. Not that he enjoyed such 
leisure as to need window-gazing to fill it up, for more busi- 
ness was done in that bow-windowed room than in any othex’ 
in the town. 


82 


THE KEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


He was vexed at being a little late on this bustling market- 
day, and still more vexed at the cause of his delay, which was 
a woman. He hastened to sign the letters before him, while 
his roving glance swept the street as he listened to the old 
clerk^s communications. 

“ Doctor Annesley called and was much put out,^^ the latter 
said; ‘^he could not wait, as he was starting on his country 
rounds. He wrote this note. The note was brief. 

“ 1 must have that money, no matter at what interest, it 
ran. “ Could I raise some upon the Gledesworth prospects? 
Call before you leave town to-day. — P. A. 

“ My good fellow, why will you mix with rich and idle 
men?'*'’ Eickman thought to himself. 

“ That will do, Hughes,^ ^ he said, and the old clerk left 
him to his work, and there was silence in the room, broken 
only by the rapid course of the lawyer^s pen. 

His face was heavy with care, and he was not quite so sure 
as he had been of the potency of human will, and especially 
of his own. The check Alice Lingard had given him two 
days before on Arden Down, when he had formally askecf her 
to marry him, hurried on to decisive measures by the necessity 
of putting a stop to Edward Annesley^s apparent designs, was 
severe and far less easy to bear than he had anticipated — for 
he was too good an observer not to have known that Alice 
would never accept his first offer; he relied upon time and 
circumstance, the power of his will and the continued stress 
of his passion, which was patient as well as ardent, to win her. 

“ My mother, he reflected, while another portion of his 
active brain was occupied with the subject beneath his pen, 
‘‘ is the most amiable of human beings, but she is the most 
simple and unobservant. My father has talents, but with all 
that concerns human life and conduct he is an infant in arms. 
How on earth Sibyl and I came by our brains. Heaven alone 
knows; on the whole, we should be thankful that we have any. 
If that stupid little Sib would but take a fancy to Paul she 
might catch him at the rebound. And Paul has expectations. 
Paul saw them together last night and enjoyed it as much as I 
did. But women are so unreliable, they upset all one^s cal- 
culations, • one never knows whatHhey will do next.' As for 
that good-looking fool — Gervase sighed and paused in his 
work; he did not like to admit to himself that he had made 
too light of him, yet he feared it, and when he thought of 
SibyPs secret he burned with hatred for the man who had so 
deeply touched her heart. He looked out upon the thicken- 


THE REPROACH OP AHNESLEY. 83 

ing stream of passengers in the street and saw one of whom he 
made a mental note, and went on writing with the under- 
current thought that nothing was any good without Alice, and 
that the very passion of his desire for her love was sufficient 
warrant for his winning it. “And whaf a man she might 
make of nie!^^ he thought, perhaps with some dim, deeply 
hidden notion of propitiating Providence with the promise of 
being good if he could but get his coveted toy. 

While his rapid pen flew 'over the paper he recalled the be- 
ginning of this attachment, now fast developing into a passion. 

It was Aliceas seventeenth birthday, and he was talking to 
his father about her affairs, when the latter remarked that 
she had now grown a tall young woman. 

“And we shall lose her, Gervase,^^ he added. “She will 
marry early. Besides her good looks, she has what men value 
more, money. 

Then Gervase thought how convenient her little fortune would 
be to a man in his position, and reflected further that, am- 
bitious as he was, he could not reasonably expect to find a 
better match. While thus musing, he strolled out into the 
garden and saw Alice, yesterday one of “ the children, an 
overgrown girl, an incumbrance or a toy, according to the 
humor of the moment, gathering flowers, unconscious of his 
observation. It was a different Alice that he saw that day; 
the child was gone, giving place to a young creature who com- 
pelled his homage. He offered her his birthday congratula- 
tions with deference, his manner had a new reserve. “ She 
shall be my wife,'’^ he said to himself with a beating heart. 

Three years had passed but this purpose had not faltered. 
Then came the check on Arden Down. This occurred at a 
gypsying excursion by the Manor party during which he found 
himself alone with her. He knew that it was too early to 
press his suit, but Edward Annesley’s visit to the Manor 
forced his hand. * 

Alice hoped that it was but a passing fancy and tried to im- 
press this view of the affair upon him. “You are making a 
mistake, she said; you would not be happy with me. I 
have not even ambition. Let us forget this, dear Gervase. 
Otherwise I must leave you. I hope you will not drive me 
away from Arden. It is my only home. 

They were*standing by a gate on the down, looking over the 
plain, which stretched away with its budding trees half veiled 
in leafage to the blue belt of sea; cowslips nodded in the hedge 
near them; the great spring chorus of birds was borne faintly 
from the valleys up to their airy height; the world was full of 


84 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


music and beauty. Gervase looked straight into Alice’s eyes 
and fascinated her by the magnetism of his glance, and he 
spoke as if moved by a power beyond his control. 

“It is no mistake,” he said. “ You are the one woman 
for me. And I will win you,” he added, in deep, almost 
menacing tones. “ It may be years first. But I ioill win 
you, I shall win you. Yes; in spite of yourself.” 

Alice trembled; she could not withdraw her fascinated gaze 
from his. The air of conviction with which he spoke seemed 
prophetic; her heart beat painfully; she was on the verge of 
tears. 

But she was no weakling; she summoned all her forces t@ 
meet and defy him. “ How dare you speak like that?” she 
said, in cold, cutting tones. 

“ I dare,” he replied, with inward trembling but outward 
determination, “because I love. Forgive me, Alice,” he 
added, more gently, when she turned away. “ Forget my 
words. Forget my folly. Let us be as we were before.” 

Then tears came to her relief. She quickly checked them, 
smiled once more, and there was peace between them. After 
that he was careful to suppress all traces of the lover in his 
manner, and she was gradually reassured. He was also care- 
ful to draw her observations to the attentions which Edward 
Annesley appeared to pay to Sibyl, and to confide to her his 
approval of the match. 

That Edward was winning Alice’s heart was bitter to Ger- 
vase, that- he was winning Sibyl’s and threatening to spoil her. 
life, was almost more bitter. He resolved that Sibyl’s life 
should not be spoiled; he determined to bring Annesley to 
book, and show him that he was bound in honor to marry her. 
But this stej) needed the most subtle treatment; the slightest 
mistake would be fatal. Besides, he feared to precipitate 
whatever designs Annesley might have with regard to Alice, 
by premature interference, and contented himself with being 
at Arden as much as possible during Edward’s visit, and mak- 
ing arrangements to keep him apart from Alice during his 
absence, in which small schemes he was greatly aided by the 
transparent simplicity of his mother. 

Truly this unfortunate young man had more than epough 
to burden his active brain, and just when it was important, in 
view of the approaching county election, to give his mind en- 
tirely to political affairs. Women seemed to be made expressly 
to torment and perplex mankind, as Baysh Squire observed of 
boys. If Sybil, whom he loved with an instinctive clinging 
affection almost as deep as his self-love, had been but a man. 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


85 


‘‘ But then/^ he reflected, “ perhaps we should have wanted 
the same woman. That fatal sex would still have ruined all.'^^ 

He had hitherto said that he would not live without Alice; 
now he found that he could not. Wealth, success, power, 
and position, things that he had yearned for and purposed to 
win by the strength of his intellect and energy, suddenly lost 
all value in themselves; without Alice they were no good. 

“I must and I will have her,^^ he muttered, while he dashed 
his pen fiercely into the ink-bottle, at the conclusion of his 
task. 

His- reflections were disturbed by the opening of the door; 
the not very usual sound of a lady^s dress rustling over the 
matting was heard, and Mrs. Annesley met Gervase^s fierce 
intense gaze with one of her seraphic smiles. 

In an instant the young lawyer^s glance fell, and changed 
to its every-day suavity as he rose witli a smile, in which sur- 
prise and welcome were equally blended, to receive his unex- 
pected visitor. 

“You are doubtless surprised, Mr. Eickman,’^ she said, 
taking the chair he placed for her, “ that I should visit you 
instead of sending for you as usual. 1 have a reason.’^ 

“ That is of course,^ ^ replied Gervase. “You know I am 
always at your service at any moment.-’^ 

“ I thought your country clients would scarcely have arrived 
at this early hour, and 1 might therefore seize the opportunity 
of calling on you on my way home from morning prayers with- 
out attracting attention at home. My beloved son, Gervase, 
is, I fear, in sad difficulties.^^ 

“ Indeed, returned Gervase, with a look of surprised inter- 
est, while he moved a paper softly over PauTs note, “lam 
sorry for that.-’ ^ 

“ Is it possible,” continued Mrs. Annesley, studying his face 
with an astonished air, “ that my dear boy has not consulted 
even you upon the subject?” 

“ My dear Mrs. Annesley,” returned Gervase, laughing, 
“ do you suppose that we lawyers discuss our clients’ alfairs 
even to their nearest friends?” 

“ True,” she replied, annoyed at herself. “ I had forgotten 
Mr. Eickman for the moment, and was thinking of my young 
friend, GerVase. It is most probable that you know more of 
these unfortunate complications than I do, for my child, I can 
not tell why,” she added, applying her handkerchief to her 
eyes, “ has not honored me with his confidence. I feel this, 
Mr. Eickman, as only a sensitive and devoted woman can.” 

“ Doubtless,” he said, with courteous patience. “ Hang 


86 THE EEPKOACH OF AKNESLEY. 

the woman ! why in the world does she come here plaguing me 
with her feelings?^’ he thought. “ You have reason, then, 
to suppose that Paul is in difficulties of some kind upon which 
he has not consulted you?’-’ he added. 

“ Doctor Annesley,” she continued, with severe dignity, 
“ has incurred debts of honor, v/hich he does not find himself 
in a position to discharge without serious inconvenience. I 
need scarcely tell you, Mr. Eickman, that my son’s income is 
most insufficient for a young man of his birth and tastes. His 
professional success has not as yet been by any means propor- 
tioned to his talents and energy. His youth is against him. It 
naturally prejudices those who have every confidence in his 
skill. My son is proud; he prefers to make his own way, and 
no longer accepts an allowance from me, as you are aware. 
I honor his independence, but ” — here she dropped her dignity, 
and suddenly became natural in a burst of real feeling — “ I 
do think he might come to me in his trouble.” 

“ I dare say,” Gervase said, soothingly, while Mrs. Annes- 
ley daintily dried her tears, “ that if he is, as you think, hard 
up, he sees his way out of the scrape, and does not wish to 
worry you if he can possibly help himself. ” 

That is just what hurts me, Gervase,” replied Mrs. Annes- 
ley, still oblivious of her dignity. “ He might know that I 
would grudge him nothing. It is hard that a man of his birth 
and elegant manners should never indulge in the tastes and 
amusements natural to his age. And I am ready, as he might 
know, to incur any sacrifice to extricate him. I would rather 
live in a hovel than see my son unable to meet debts of honor. ” 
We all know what a devoted mother he has,” said the 
politic Gervase. “ I infer, then, that you wish to find him the 
money. ” 

Exactly, dear Gervase, with your accustomed penetration 
you go straight to the point.” 

Well, then,” said Gervase, glancing unobserved at his 
watch, why don’t you mortgage some of your house prop- 
erty? That would be bette'r than selling stock just now. 
How much does he want?” 

“ That, I believe, you are in a better position to say than I 
am,” she replied, with a dry little smile. 

Gervase also smiled, and said that the mortgage should be 
effected at once, since he knew where to find the money, and 
in a surprisingly short time he contrived to get the whole of 
Mrs. Annesley’s wishes expressed, and learned that Paul was 
to be kept in doubt until the transaction was effected and the 


THE REPROACH OF AHl^ESLEY. 


87 


money in his mother’s hands, when she intended to surprise 
him. 

“ Excellent young man/’ thought Mrs. Annesley, as she 
swept down the stairs and through the outer office, where the 
busy clerks inspired her with no more fellow-feeling than the 
sheep in the pens outside. ‘“^Ile has never given his mother 
a moment’s anxiety. I suppose nothing would have induced 
him to run a horse unless he were quite sure of being able to 
pay the consequences. Quiet and prudent, the son of a mere 
physician, how dilferent from my brilliant Paul! The blood 
of the Mowbrays is not in his veins. ” She forgot that Paul 
was not even the son of a physician, since Walter Annesley 
had been but a country doctor, whose untimely death had not 
improved his son’s prospects. 

She walked joyously home through the ever-thickening 
stream of vans and carts, considering what expenses she could 
cut down to meet the interest of the mortgage, really glad that 
a load of care would be lifted from Paul’s heart, but anxious 
that he should acknowledge and admire her sacrifice; few 
things pleased her so much as to be considered a martyr; she 
was a woman who could not exist without a grievance. 

She wondered how Heaven came to afflict her with such a 
son, though she knew very well that she would not have loved 
him half so well had he been sl^padier and less extravagant. 
Destiny had evidently made a mistake in setting a man of his 
mold to wield the lancet; perhaps that view had also occurred 
to Destiny, and resulted in the recent removal of Eeginald 
Annesley from the Gledesworth succession. 


CHAPTER V. 

STORM. 

Full of these thoughts, Mrs. Annesley entered her house 
and went through her usual tranquil occupations, all of 
which, however homely in themselves, were characterized by 
a certain elegance peculiar to herself. 

The maids trembled when summoned one by one to her 
presence to be called to account for the various doings and 
misdoings of the week, and were equally awed by reproof or 
commendation, though, being human, they preferred the lat- 
ter. Certain dainty dustings of bric-a-brac by her own hands 
occurred on Saturdays, and the subsidiary dustings and clean- 
ings of which they were the crown and summit, were truly 
awful in their immaculate perfection. She arranged fresh 
flowers, and terrible was the fate of that maid who brought 


88 


THE KEPKOACH OF ANNESLEY. 


ail imperfectly cleaned vase for tlieir reception, or spilled the 
water required for them. These weekly duties were all com- 
pleted, and Mrs. Annesley, arrayed in fresh laces, was sitting 
in the drawing-room with some elegant trifle representing 
needle-work in her hand, when the Rickmans’ phaeton drove 
up to the door about one o’clock with Ed ward Annesley, whom 
she expected to lunch with her on his way from Arden. 

Paul had returned from his country round, and was watch- 
ing the arrival of the phaeton from the window of his consult- 
ing-room with an eager intensity strangely disproportioned to 
the event. The gray mare trotted in her leisurely fashion up 
to the door, totally ignoring the unusual stimulus of the whip, 
which Sibyl applied with all her might, in the vain hope of 
infusing some dash into her paces. Mrs. Rickman occupied 
the front seat by her daughter’s side, and was protesting 
against her cruelty; but the gray mare might have been a fly- 
ing dragon, and these ladies harpies, for all Paul cared; his 
fiery glance was concentrated on the back seat, in which were 
Alice Lingard and his cousin. The latter was on the pave- 
ment before the vehicle had stopped. His farewells were soon 
said, and the phaeton drove off with the nearest approach to 
dash ever made by the gray mare, in response to an unusually 
sharp cut of Sibyl’s whip. Edward stood on the^ pavement 
looking for some moments ^fter the vanishing carnage, with 
an expression that was not lost upon Paul. Then he slowly 
turned, crossed the pavement, turning once more in the direc- 
tion of the carriage, now lost to view, and finally went up the 
steps and rang the bell. Paul felt that he was still looking in 
the direction taken by the phaeton, though he could no longer 
see him. 

He had seen what passed between*’ Edward and Alice at part- 
ing, only the lifting of Alice’s gaze to Edward’s when he wislied 
her good-bye, but with a look so luminous that it went like a 
stab to Paul’s heart. These things so wrought upon him that 
he seized a bust of Galen from a bracket by the wall and dashed 
it to pieces on the ground. 

He had scarcely done this, when a patient was announced 
and condoled with him upon the accident. Paul smiled grimly 
in response, and proceeded to his business, a small, but deli- 
cate operation on the eye, which he effected with a steady and 
skillful hand. No one in Medington knew what a skillful 
surgeon he was; even his mother did not credit him with pro- 
fessional excellence. 

^ They were already at table when he went in to luncheon; 
Edward, quite unconscious of the storm he had set raging in 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLET. 


89 


his cousin’s breast, seemed unusually friendly and pleased to 
see him. ^ ^ 

“ I was afraid I might miss you, after all,” he said, rising 
and grasping his hand in a grip so warm that he did not per- 
ceive the coldness with which it was received. “ I know what 
a chance it is to catch you at luncheon, especially on a market- 
day. ” 

“ Not when I have guests,” replied Paul, with an extra 
stateliness, which Edward would have been incapable of per- 
ceiving, even if his mind had been less preoccupied; “ only the 
most important cases keep me from home under such circum- 
stances. ” 

“ He never suffers the professional man to obscure the gen- 
tleman,” said Mrs. Annesley. 

He would not be your son if he did,” Edward returned. 

Mrs. Annesley was so light of heart in consequence of her 
morning exploit, that she chatted away most graciously and 
gayly, and set Edward on the congenial theme of his visit to 
Arden, and the virtues of the Eickman family. Paul observed 
with ever-deepening gloom that he did not mention Alice, he 
only named Sibyl when speaking of the ladies. 

His mother attributed Paul’s unusual silence to his anx- 
ieties; his unobservant cousin did not notice it. 

After luncheon there was still an hour to waste before Ed- 
ward’s train was due, and he was still unconscious of anything 
unusual in Paul, when the latter asked him to go out in the 
garden t(fr a stroll with him. The ^garden was large; it ex- 
tended not only the full breadth of the house to a wall bound- 
ed by the parallel street, but ran along that street for a little 
distance at the back of other houses. Beneath some tall limes, 
the crimson-edged branches of which were now showing a few 
fluttering transparent leaflets, j)ale green against the blue sky, 
there was a stretch of rich deep sward, the growth of at least 
a century. Here were benches, and, sitting on one of them, 
one could see the flower-garden and the back of the house half 
hidden in ivy and creepers. 

Quite silently the young men strolled through the whole 
length of the garden, Edward looking at the scented hyacinths, 
the flowering currants, old friends he knew so well, the great 
elm with the long disused swing and the rich veil of April 
green about its lower branches, and vaguely enjoying the mys- 
tery and richness of the spring Paul, with his eyes cast down, 
his lips closed firmly, his eare deaf to the song of the black- 
birds who found homes in that pleasant garden, and whose 


90 THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 

music seemed like a romantic picture painted on the jn’osaic 
background of the town noise. 

Edward threw himself on a bench and stretched his legs 
comfortably before him in the sunshine, while he took his 
short pipe from his pocket and began to fill it, and was just 
beginning to wonder why Paul did not smoke. Then he looked 
up and was surprised at the expression on the face of Paul, 
who was standing before him, a dark figure against the sun- 
shine. 

Paul was extremely pale, his eyes appeared black with in- 
tense feeling, his lips moved as if trying to frame some speech 
of which he was incapable, and for a few moments he gazed 
silently at his cousin. 

‘‘ What is the matter, Paul?^^ the latter asked, changing his 
careless attitude for an upright posture. He had heard some- 
thing of PauPs pecuniary straits, and thought that he might 
be on the verge of asking help of him. He knew that his in- 
troduction to Captain Mcllvray had been rather unfortunate. 
Mcllvray and Paul, being congenial spirits, had rapidly become 
intimate; this intimacy had brought Paul into immediate con- 
tact with the other officers of the regiment, and in turn with 
their friends. Those Highland officers were all men of means 
and family, they were nearly all unmarried and more or less 
fast, and the usual consequences of a young man associating 
with richer men than himself had ensued. Late hours, play, 
moderate by a rich man^s standard, but high by a poor man^s, 
steeple-chasing by a horse due at sick people^s doors^ and such 
like, had combined to empty the doctor’s pockets and scan- 
dalize his patients, particularly the steady-going burghers of 
Medington, who did not care to trust their families or them- 
sejves to the hands of a young man, who, instead of occupying 
his leisure with medical books, consorted with a “set of 
rackety officers,” and for all this Edward felt to some extent 
responsible. 

“ I asked you,” Paul replied in the incisive tones of white- 
hot passion, “ to come out here, because I think it time to 
come to an understanding. ” 

“ An understanding of what? If it is money, dear fellow, 
I think 1 can promise to help you.” 

“Money,” repeated Paul, with ironical laughter, “money 
indeed!” 

This lofty scorn of that cause of so much mischief, the lack 
of which is so excessively inconvenient to ordinary mortals, was 
less edifying than amusing in a man who was head over heels in 
debt, and a half smile stole over Edward’s face when he heard 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


91 


it. A certain grandiose manner which Paul inherited from 
his mother, and which sometimes degenerated into affectation, 
often amused his simpler-manirered cousin, and provoked him 
to the expression of wholesome ridicule. But the tragic set of 
Paul’s features warned him that anything in the shape of 
laughter would be ill-timed, so he composed his face to a 
decent gravity, observing that he had feared, from certain 
hints Paul had given, that times were hard with him, and that 
he was delighted to find himself mistaken. 

‘‘If it isn’t money,” he reflected, “it must be love. 
Though, how on earth I am to help at that, I don’t know.” 

“You seem a cup too low,” he added, aloud. “Come, 
cheer up; whatever it is, you have the world before you, and 
a stout pair of arms to fight it with.” 

“ Thank you,” Paul replied, with sharper irony; “ I am in 
no need of either your advice or your sympathy.” 

“ Then, what in the world does he want?” thought the 
other. “ It can not be his mother’s temper.” 

“ Surely you must know what explanation I require,” con- 
tinued Paul, relieving his irritation by dinting the turf sharply 
with his heel. Edward possessed that perfect good temper 
which results from the combination of a good digestion, a clean 
conscience, and congenial circumstances; the undisturbed 
amiability with which he met his fiery cousin’s determination 
to quarrel with him was most aggravating. “ Is it possible,” 
Paul thought, concentrating his blazing glance upon that 
cheerful face, “ that this man can be such a hypocrite as well 
as traitor? I wish to know,” he added, aloud, “ the object of 
your visits to Arden Manor?” 

“ Indeed?” The good-tempered face darkened now. 
“ That is my affair.” Edward rose from the bench, made a 
few^teps, and then retraced them. “ Do you mean to say,” 
he asked, “ that you brought me out here for the express pur- 
pose of asking why I visit at Arden?” 

“ For the express purpose,” replied Paul, the breath com- 
ing audibly through his quivering nostrils. 

The momentary irritation passed away, and Edward laughed. 

“ You always were a queer fellow,” he said; “ but why this 
paternal interest in my goings and comings?” 

“ I warned you,” continued Paul; “ I explained the situa- 
tion to you; I have spoken to you since of my hopes and 
wishes. You have indeed honored my confidence. The very 
first day you went there by stealth. It was unnecessary, you 
might have gone openly. A second time you went by stealth 
when every one considered you to be miles away. Yet, after 


93 


THE llEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


what passed in my presence, secrecy was absurd. Do you sup- 
pose me to be blind? We all know that a girl flirt delights in 
trying to make conquests of those who belong to others. That 
a man should descend so far is, I own, almost incredible. But 
one must believe the evidence of one’s senses. That a man, 1 
will not say a gentleman, a man with the most elementary 
notions of honor should deliberately pay his addresses in a 
quarter to one — ” 

‘‘ My dear Paul,” interrupted Edward, keeping a grave face 
with diflSculty, “ what a ridiculous misunderstanding this is! 
Beware of jealousy.” 

“ Jealousy!” cried Paul, flinging away from him with his 
eyes rolling. ‘‘ Jealousy, indeed! I saw you,” he added, in- 
consistently, ‘‘ when you said good-bye at my door to-day. 
That night I saw you placing her hands on the bow with your 
infernal fingers — ” 

“ And were not jealous? Sensible fellow! Seriously, you 
are in a painful position, and it makes you, as you told me the 
other day, oversensitive; you can not see things in their right 
jiroportions; you exaggerate trifles. ” 

“ Is it a trifle that you are almost an inmate of that house? 
that she gives you flowers? that you treasure up one flower she 
drops? that you look into her eyes as I saw you look an hour 
ago? that you sing with her? walk alone with her? act like 
an idiot when she is near? By all that is sacred — ” 

“ Come, listen to reason; I admit you are not jealous. But, 
as you said the other day, it makes you wretched in this un- 
, certain state of affairs even to hear of other men going to the 
house, much less being civil to her.” 

‘‘Civil!” 

“ One must be civil to ladies, especially in their own 
houses. I was bound to teach her to shoot. But I am in- 
nocent of the other crimes you impute to me, I swear I am. 
Look here, Paul. I will stand more from you than from any 
man living. But you go too far. You are hard hit and in a 
false position, and that makes you forget" yourself. Put an 
end to all this, for pity’s sake; ask her to marry you and have 
done with it. ” 

“ Have done with it; that would, no doubt, be agreeable to 
you,” Paul repeated, with a grim smile. “ But I may be mis- 
taken, after all; you have no doubt been so obliging as to try 
to advance my suit by proxy. ” 

Edward turned red when he remembered his unfortunate 
essay in that line in Arden Church-yard. 

“ Nonsense,” he replied, laughing. “ Come, you have the 


THE KEP ROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


93 


field to yourself. I shall not be seeing her for weeks. In the 
meantime, come to the point, and let me congratulate you on 
being engaged before I come back again. 

The easy way in which he proposed this impossible thing 
turned all PauFs blood to fire, made his head swim, and 
clouded his eyes for a moment. He knew that Edward and 
Alice loved each other, and, more than that, he knew that 
Edward, while speaking with this insolent nonchalance, was 
fully aware that he had won Aliceas heart. The fire of inex- 
tinguishable hate burned in his breast, and the madness of 
jealousy possessed him; the parting look between the two 
pierced like a poisoned arrow to the core of his heart; it was 
well for him that no deadly weapon was at hand or his cous- 
in’s last words would have baen spoken. 

“ You have no explanation to ofier, then?” he asked. 

“ There is nothing to explain. You accuse me of paying 
too much attention to the lady of your choice. I reply that I 
have not done so.” 

“ Can you deny that you love Alice Lingard?” he urged. 

‘‘ Surely you mean Sibyl?” Edward faltered. “ It was she 
of whom you spoke that night. I had not even heard of Miss 
Lingard’s existence.” 

“ Then it is true,” Paul said, tragically; and for some mo- 
ments neither cousin could do anytfing but try to realize the 
painful situation in which they found themselves. 

“ It was not my mistake alone,” added Edward, who was 
now grave enough. “ Your mother jested on the subject the 
first night I spent there. ” 

“ Are you engaged to Miss Lingard?” Paul asked, turning 
a stony face, from which despair had taken all the passion, 
toward the pained glance of his cousin. 

No,” he replied, and for the moment wished he could have 
said yes. If he had not already won Alice’s heart, he knew 
that he was on the high-road to it. He might have spoken 
the night before, but he considered it scarcely seemly to be so 
precipitate. And, now that he had not actually committed 
himself, he did not know what to do. He had certainly in- 
jured Paul, and in a way that made atonement impossible. 

“I am sorry for this,” he said, after a pause, “ more sorry 
than I can say.” And yet he doubted if his advent had done 
Paul much harm. He had had the first chance and had missed 
it. But what if Alice had seemed to accept his attentions for 
the purpose of drawing the laggard lover on? Girls often did 
that. Girls like Alice? Oh, no, Alice was different; she was 
not to be measured by ordinary standards. 


94 THE REPllOACH OF ANHESLEY. 

The discovery that Edward had not played him false, and 
that he had consequently no grievance against him, served 
rather to intensify the jealous anger which devoured PauTs 
heart. Every expression of regret on Ed ward ^s part was an- 
other assurance that Alice had been stolen from him. 

“You must never see her again, he said, decisively. An 
almond -tree covered with blossoms rose behind him and traced 
its pink branches upon the clear blue sky. He turned and 
took a thick bough in his hands and snapped it like a stick of 
wax, and the pink tracery was now marked on the green turf 
at his feet. Edward plucked some of the red twigs of the 
lime-tree, and twisted them round his fingers until he nearly 
brought the blood. The blackbird fiuted melodiously, the 
hum of the busy market-place went on, the church clock 
cliimed the hour, and the gnomon of the tree-shadows changed 
its place on the turf-dial, while the two cousins stood silent, 
facing each other, divided this way and that by distracting 
thoughts. 

“ I can not promise that,^^ Edward replied at last. “ AVe 
can not both have her, but one must. She is not to be left to 
linger out her youth in doubt. 1 give you three months. 
That is a long time. Six weeks ago I had never heard of her. 

Paul made another deep dent in the turf. Three months 
was no time, and how could he ask a woman to marry him in 
his present circumstances? Besides, would Alice forget Ed- 
ward in three months? 

Edward was asking himself the same question. He had no 
right to believe that she would ever think of him, and yet it 
seemed impossible that the stream of their lives, having once 
mingled, could ever divide again. But Love is jealous. Alice 
had known Paul for years; she admired his character and 
pitied his domestic misery; she might easily think his own feel- 
ing for her, if not followed up in those three months, a pass- 
ing fancy, and would certainly quench whatever nascent feeling 
for himself might have been germinating within her, when 
she saw tliat PauPs happiness depended upon her. 

“ Three months is no time,^^ Paul said. 

“You must indeed be blind,’"’ returned Edward, “if you 
can not see what a tremendous advantage those three montlis 
will give you. She will think I have forgotten her. ” 

Paul did not think so, yet he wondered that Edward could 
face such a possibility. After all, did this cold-blooded fellow 
really care for her? Surely not as he did. 

“ 1 can not live without her,” he cried, in his stormy way, 
“ and perhaps you can.” 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


9o 


Yes,” replied Edward, slowly, “I can live without her. 
Perhaps I should be no good to her. If only she is happy! If 
she takes you — and I can not say that I wish that — it must be 
as Heaven pleases — I shall forget this, I shall try to be her 
friend — yes, aud yours. It is something to have known her, 
more to have loved her. Heaven bless her! Till three 
months, then.” 

He was gone. 

Paul was touched. The pendulum of his impetuous nature 
swung to the other extreme. He could not have yielded that 
advantage, and he thought that if Alice took Edward she would 
take the better man. He remembered what a golden strand 
his cousin’s friendship had woven in his lonely childhood and 
through all his life. A thousand forgotten things revived in 
his memory; he thought what a good fellow Edward was! what 
days, they had had together ! He knew that not every man 
had such a friend, and few women such a lover. And a vague 
foreboding warned him that the life-long comradeship would 
never be renewed. At last he turned to go back to the house, 
aud met the maid tripping over the turf with a note. “ From 
Mr. Rickman, sir,” she said. He opened it with a preoccu- 
pied air and read : 

‘‘ The infant Annesley died this morning. G. R.” 

He was now the actual heir of Gledesworth. The present 
owner was incapable of making a will. 

“Poor little fellow!” he exclaimed; “poor baby! poor 
young mother!” 

Then he went in to convey the weighty tidings to his mother. 

Edward was now on his way home with a heavy weight on 
his heart, thinking that the two best things in his life, his love 
and his friendship, had been broken at one blow. 

PART 111, 


CHAPTER I. 

LIGHT AHD SHADE. 

It was a dark day in May, one of those weird, poetic days, 
full of purple shadows broken by bursts of hazy sun-gold, in 
which the most lovely and capricious of months hides its youth 
and freshness under a gloom borrowed from autumn as if in 
sport. 


96 THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 

Mysterious folds of gloom were woven about the downs; 
great masses of purple'and umber shade floated solemnly over 
the level lands below them; the hills on the horizon borrowed 
a grandeur not their own from these broad cloud-shadows and 
the dark haze swathed about their flanks; the level band of 
sea, where the hills suddenly broke away from the shore, was 
dark and dream -like and lighted by fitful gleams of golden 
luster; here and there, when a rift in the heavy clouds let the 
sunshine through in a long, misty shaft, an unexpected field, 
cottage or village tower shone out from the surrounding haze, 
only to fade into the warm gloom again with a most magical 
effect; and the dense, dark woods, which looked autumn-like 
in the shadow, smiled now and again under the sun-bursts 
into the exquisitely varied tints of fresh May foliage. 

On such a day nightingales sing in the stillness of the 
shadowy woods, and now and then blackbirds interrupt them 
with their flute-notes, while larks keep fluttering upwarJ with 
sudden torrents of song. On such a day the cuckoo is less jjer; 
sistent in his merry defiance, and doves moan continually in 
fragrant fir woods. 

The square and solid tower of Arden Church looked darker 
and grander beneath the deep, cloud-piled sky, a solemn 
shadow brooded over the thatched roofs and stone walls of the 
cottages, over the gray gables of Arden Manor, and the dark- 
tiled parsonage roof. From the church tower there hung in 
rarely stirred folds a flag half-mast high; one or two were 
shown in the village; the throb of the slow-pulsed knell 
vibrated upon the quiet air. Raysh Squire was once more ex- 
ercising his melancholy function in the chill darkness of the 
belfry, whither even on the brightest summer days a wander- 
ing sunbeam rarely strayed, and then only in slender, half- 
dimmed rods. Raysh yawned; he had been pulling his rope 
for a good hour, and, in spite of his firm conviction that only 
such art as he had acquired in a life-long exercise of his craft 
could do justice to a funeral knell, and that such art did not 
reside in any mortal arm within ten miles of Arden, he sorely 
wanted to see and hear all that was going on outside in the 
thronged church-yard, and continually asked for information 
of tlie little grandchild he had stationed at the door, which 
stood slightly ajar for the purpose. 

“ Baint "em come yet?"' he kept repeating, with im- 
patience; and the little one always said: “No; only the live 
ones is come." 

A low murmur of voices rose from the village and hummed 
under the very walls of the church; the landlord of the Golden 


THE KEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


97 


Horse jpaoved about with a sort of melancholy exultation 
irradiating his wooden visage, and gave up counting the maze 
of vehicles drawn up under the sycamore-trees before his door 
in an agreeable despair; while his wife and daughter flew hither 
and thither with crimson faces and panting chests, in the vain 
attempt to be in five places at once and the still vainer en- 
deavor to discriminate between the numerous orders heaped 
upon them, until the landlady became ‘‘ that harled,"^ as she 
expressed it, that she relieved her feelings by dealing a sound- 
ing box on the ear to the astounded and unoffending stable- 
help, thus completely scattering what remained of his harried 
wits; after that she felt better, though it cost her a solid silver 
shilling. 

The whole of Arden village, gentle and simple, every one who 
was not too old or too ill, was about the church-yard or along 
the road; extreme youth was no bar to coming out, since it 
could be carried in arms, whence it occasionally expressed loud 
dissatisfaction at the lot of man, not knowing how soon it 
would be quieted once and for all in the silence whence it 
came. Everybody wore a bit of black ribbon or crape, and 
every face expressed that quiet enjoyment which the British 
lower classes experience only at a funeral. 

“ Where there’s one death in a family there’s sure to be 
three avore the year’s out,” one kind-faced matron observed 
to another with unction. 

“ Zure enough,” replied the other, in an awed voice; “ but 
’tain’t every day there’s such a sad death as this yere. My 
master, he zes there’s trouble for everybody holding Gledes- 
worth lauds, and there ain’t no going agen it no more than 
Scripture. Bide still, my dear; don’t ’ee pull sister’s hair 
now.” 

The national temperament, which shows in its pureness in 
the lower strata, delights chiefly in the dismal; it may be that 
the countrymen of Shakespeare and Milton have a natural bias 
for tragedy; it may be that strong and deep natures can only 
be moved by strong and deep things, such as the dark mys- 
teries of death and sorrow, all events, the light and bright 
things that set other Europeans laughing and dancing, too 
frequently move our sober folk only to a sort of wondering 
contempt. 

But now there is a movement, a dark procession is seen 
winding slowly between the cottage flower-gardens; the vicar, 
a solitary and conspicuous figure in his white surplice, issues 
from the deep-arched door and walks slowly down to the lich- 
gate, to meet the solemn and silent guest with words of im- 

4 


9^ THE EEPKOACH OF ANHESLEY. 

mortal hope; a touching custom, which seems like the welcome 
home of a sou, never more to leave the fatherly roof. 

Now the occupants of the carts and carriages emptied and 
drawn up before the Golden Horse arrange themselves in fit 
order with those who have followed the hearse over the downs 
all the way from distant Gledesworth, and the silent and un- 
conscious center of all the lugubrious pomp is lifted on to the 
broad shoulders of eight stalwart laborers, in white smocks, 
blue Sunday trousers and broad felt hats, and borne silently 
after the welcoming priest into the dim church, which is 
already half full of women in black (for the men are nearly all 
following), and where the air is tremulous with the wail of the 
funeral march from the organ. 

There were no breaking hearts and streaming eyes at this 
burial; those who had loved the man lying beneath the violet 
velvet pall were gone to their long home, and he who walked 
as chief mourner behind him, Paul Annesley, had never known 
him. But there were tears in Paul Annesley^’s eyes; his face 
was pale with feeling and his heart ached within him with 
pity for the man he had never seen, the man who for ten 
weary years had been a captive, strange to all the joys of life, 
dead to all its interests and affections, exchanging no rational 
word with his fellow-men, and seeing the face of none who 
loved him. Yet though it was well that the darkness of death 
should close upon this terrible affliction, the pity of it struck 
keen to the heart of the man who inherited the possessions 
which had been so valueless to their owner, and the fact that 
all the lands they had traversed that morning, the very land 
out of which that small field reserved for God and the poorest 
of men was taken, belonged to him, made that darkened and 
silenced life seem the more pitiful to the heir, standing above 
the coffin in the fiower of his youth. 

Paul had been discontented with his lot, and now one higher 
than he had ever dreamed of was his. He was in some sort 
the lord of all that following of tenantry who packed the 
church aisles and tliranged the church-yard in silent homage 
to the poor dead maniac. His sudden good fortune touched 
his heart to the core, made it ache with compassion for his 
unknown kinsman, and pierced it with a sense of his own de- 
fects. Dr. Davis, his former successful rival, stood not far 
off, having come uninvited out of respect to the dead man. 
Their relative positions were indeed changed, and Paul was 
ashamed of his former jealousy. Gervase Rickman was there 
as steward to the estate; the broad-faced, hearty-voiced 
farmers who yesterday might employ him or not as they chose. 


THE REPKOACH OF AHKESLET. 


99 


were to-day his tenants; their manner to him had changed 
already. He was still actually the parish doctor; only two 
nights ago he rode over the bleak downs to help Daniel Pink’s 
wife ill her trouble, Daniel Pink, who, though not on the 
home farm, represented his father, now too feeble for the serv- 
ice, as a bearer. 

There was little air in the dim, massively built church, 
where the heavy arches rested on low, solid piers of immense 
girth; it was obstructed by old-fashioned square pews; the 
light came dimly through the deep, small-paned windows, 
many of which, stained richly, broke the white daylight in 
various colors over the stone effigies of former Annesleys, 
couched th^’e with lance and helm in perpetual prayer. The 
musty odor of the unsunned church was stifling; the monot- 
onous voice of the clerg 3 ^man fell sadly upon the ear, echoed 
by Raysh Squire's still more monotonous church falsetto, com- 
plaining of the brevity of man’s stay upon earth and its sad- 
ness; these things, and the strangeness of the thoughts which 
came upon him as he stood in a position to which he was not 
born, and which was yet his by birth, so wrought on Paul 
that he could scarcely remain there, and was glad when the 
rite in the church was done, and they came out into the free 
air again, and the buzz of low-toned conversation died away 
before them. 

A sun -burst fell uj)on the violet pall; it lighted the white 
smocks of the bearers, the weathered stone-work of the church, 
the delicate green of the elms where rooks were cawing, and 
glorified the faces of the crowd. Paul bethought him that he 
was in some degree res230usible for the well-being of all these 
people. 

And he wondered how his turn of fortune would work on 
Alice? It would be nothing without her, and though he now 
contrasted his position with Edward’s triumphantly, he would 
gladly have exchanged with him, or sunk back into the strug- 
gling and unsuccessful parish doctor, if he could but win Alice. 

People looked with wondering interest at the pale face, so 
familiar to most of them under such different associations, for 
the most part with harmless envy of one on whom Fortune 
had so suddenly smiled, otherwise not without a vague pity. 
There were whispers of the mysterious doom which clung to 
the owner of Gledes worth, and speculations as to this man’s 
fate. Would he too go down to the grave, unmourned by a 
son of his blood, not knowing who should gather the riches he 
left behind him? 

Many, nay, most of the tenants remembered Reginald 


100 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLET. 


Annesley before bis great affliction had sundered him from his 
fellow-men, some of them remembered old kindnesses and 
genial words, all were touched with an awed pity, which was 
the deeper because they did not know that no blind Fate, but 
youthful excess, developing a hereditary tendency, was the true 
cause of his long affliction. Especially was this the feeling of 
the simple-hearted men who bore their master and friend to 
his tomb. To them his solitary following of one unknown 
kinsman was all the more striking because of the large retinue 
which surrounded him; they thought of the sad life of which 
this was the close, and their hearts went out in strong pity; 
they listened to the terrible cry that was wrung from Notker^s 
awe-struck heart a thousand years ago, when the*falling of a 
bridge crushed so many strong lives out before his eyes, with 
a deep sense of the pathos of human destiny. Daniel Pink, 
the shepherd, looked up and caught the intense glance of 
PauPs dark eyes, and pitied him too, he knew not why. 

Daniel Pink did not envy any man; if he had been offered 
any other lot than his own, he would probably have refused 
it. For he had all that man needs, the warm affections of a 
home that his own strong arms maintained, and a plain path 
of daily duty marked out before him; he walked upon an earth 
full of meaning and beauty, and looked up to an infinite 
heaven of majesty and wonder. His heart was touched with 
pity both for the rich man they were laying in his tomb, his 
father^s master, and for the young heir who stood living before 
him. 

Only when the last words of prayer and blessing were said, 
the last rites done, and they turned away from the vault, the 
reality of his changed fortune came home to Paul, and with 
it a new sense of human responsibility, and especially his own. 
Yearnings for a better life came to him on the brink of that 
dark vault; he resolved to be worthy of the gifts suddenly 
heaped upon him. How mean his past life seemed in the light 
of these new aspirations! 

So he thought as he left the church-yard leading on his arm 
the widow of young Reginald Annesley, and the mother of the 
dead baby, who, like himself, had never seen the elder Regi- 
nald. ^ One of his first duties would be to make her a liberal 
provision; for, owing to unforeseen circumstances and the 
reversal of natural order in the untimely deaths of her hus- 
band and child, scarcely anything had fallen to her share. 
There was even a pathos in the fact that this dead man had 
carefully entailed his estates, but vainly, since his issue failed 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


101 


and his lands passed immediately and unknown to him to an 
unknown heir at law. 

Mrs. Walter Annesley was in the church, veiled in crape, 
with a handkerchief to her eyes, yet by no means consumed 
with grief. 8he had indeed one cause of sorrow in the fact 
that Paul’s inheritance had fallen to him so early that he had 
not time to appreciate the sacrifice she made to pay his debts. 
She was thinking of the new lord of Gledesworth, and wish- 
ing that Alice, who was sitting unseen at the organ, would 
meditate on the same theme. 

“ Let us fly from this dismal place, Alice,” cried Sibyl, in 
the afternoon; ‘^of all the humbugs in this humbugging 
world, funerals are the greatest and most dismal. I will not 
have any fuss made about me when I am dead, remember 
that. 1 am so glad Paul is turned into a little prince. I never 
realized it till to-day. I suppose he will be too grand to come 
to the Manor now?” 

“ Do you want to get rid of him, Sibyl?” 

“I? Oh! my dear, he does not come to see we,” replied 
Sibyl, with an air of raillery apparently lost on Alice, who was 
very busy arranging Hubert’s collar so as to leash him. But 
Sibyl was not easily extinguished, and when they had gone a 
little way through the fields she returned to the charge. 

‘‘ I am sure tliat he was not happy, Alice,” she said, with a 
mysterious air, “there was a secret canker at the root of 
everything, and I believe it was want of money.” 

“ If you are alluding to Daniel Pink,” replied Alice, with a 
little smile, “he is the most contented fellow I know, and 
though his large family does make him poor — ” 

“ Alice, how provoking you are! Pink, indeed!” 

As they were setting forth expressly to visit Pink’s wife and 
welcome the ninth baby, Alice explained that it was most nat- 
ural to be thinking of him. 

“As if people could think of anybody but the new little 
king,” replied Sibyl; “ I feel quite set up myself. Do look 
round, Alice, and realize that all this belongs to Paul Annes- 
ley, this very turf we are walking on and our dear Arden 
Manor down there by the church. 1 suppose he could turn us 
out if he chose, we are a kind of vassals. 1 almost wish he 
would, Arden is so very dull; don’t you?” 

“ You. are growing restless again. Is this philosophic?” 
asked Alice, placing the basket she was carrying to the shep- 
herd’s wife on the ground and resting her arms on a gate half- 
way up the down. 


102 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


“No; it^s human. Yes, 1 am restless. 1 want— oh, I 
want — every thing , cried Sibyl. 

Alice took the bright face in her hands, and kissed it. 
“ You are a little fool, Sibbie,^" she said, gently, “ a dear lit- 
tle fool. Write some more verses, it always does you good. 
I am not sure that a good whipping would not be the best 
thing. 

“ No doubt, replied Sibyl, while she lifted her head and 
gazed on the solemn fields and hills over which the great cloud- 
shadows were slowly sailing in larger and larger masses, thus 
leaving rarer intervals of sunlight, as if she were looking in 
vain for happiness. “ Do you think, Alice, it will be always 
like this? Quiet Arden, Raysh ringing the bells, the garden, 
the dairy, a day’s shopping in Medington, an occasional vis- 
itor, Mrs. Pink’s annual baby, the choir-practice, and Horace 
Merton coming home from Oxford and worrying the vicar?” 

Alice looked thoughtfully at Sibyl’s pretty, wistful face, and 
wondered “ who he was?” Surely not young Merton himself, 
the vicar’s troublesome prodigal, whom she had seen that 
morning, the only uninterested person during the funeral, at 
full length in a hammock under the vicarage trees, studying 
French literature in yellow paper covers, in obedience to his 
father’s request that he should “ read a little ” during his en- 
forced absence from Oxford; an absence connected with the 
unauthorized introduction of a monkey to the apartments of 
a don, as poor Mr. Merton understood. This young gentle- 
man haunted the Manor with the persistence of an ancestral 
ghost, and was not without his good points, in spite of the 
monkey incident; yet though Sibyl diligently snubbed him, as 
she did all her victims as soon as the nature of their malady 
became apparent, no one could say when and in whose person 
the fated man might appear. 

“ Perhaps there will be a change for us,” Alice said; “ Mrs. 
Pink may not go on having babies forever, and Horace Merton 
will not be sent down more than once again. And some day 
Raysh will be ringing the bells for your wedding.” 

“What a trivial notion! Can’t you originate something a 
little less commonplace?” 

“ Well, for mine, then. I am sure that is a new idea. 
Then you would get rid of me. ” 

“ I don’t know,” replied Sibyl, “ I don’t think you would 
go very far. ” 

“ Dear Sibbie, you are more sibylline than usual. I can’t 
see the point of the innuendo, unless you mean to elope with 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


103 


Raysh/^ said Alice, pursuing her way tranquilly, with the 
basket in her hand. 

“ 1 do think you are stone-blind, continued Sibyl, in a 
graver tone. “ My dear, don^t you know what everybody else 
knows or has known for the last few weeks, that that poor fel- 
low^s happiness hangs upon your breath?'’^ 

Alice grew hot, and made a movement of impatience; then 
she asked Sibyl to speak plainly and leave the subject. 

‘‘ He is really such a good fellow, and it would make us all 
so happy to have you near, and you would make him so hap- 
py. And his mother wishes it, she even asked me to try to 
bring it on.^^ 

“ Oh!'"' returned Alice, with a sigh of relief, “ in strict con- 
fidence, 1 suppose. Miss Sib. A pretty conspirator she chose 
when she lighted upon you. You sweet goose, if you must 
needs amuse yourself with match-making, you could not hit 
upon a worse plan than to show your hand.-’^ 

But, Alice, do be serious — 

“ Dear child, I am serious, and I wish you to understand 
once for all that it is a mistake, and to help me spare him the 
pain of a direct refusal. 1 saw it all months ago, and have 
done my best to put a stop to it. I even thought of going 
away for a time.^^ 

“It is in your power to make him so happy, said Sibyl, 
pathetically. “ You might grow to care for him in time, you 
know.^^ 

“ Never,^^ she answered. “ I could never — in any case — 
have cared for a man of that uncontrolled disposition — even 
supposing — 

“ Supposing what?^^ Sibyl asked, with a keen look. 

“ Oh, nothing! I mean, if I had loved him, 1 could never 
be happy with such a man. I am like my mother. I saw her 
misery, Sibyl, child as 1 was. There was that in my poor 
father which made her feel him her inferior; it is not for me 
to speak of his faults. If I once found what I could not re- 
spect in a man, I could not live with him. , I have a sort of 
pride — 

“ But, Alice, interrupted Sibyl, quickly, “ if you can not 
respect Paul Annesley, whom then can you respect?^^ 

“ Oh, I beg his pardon, replied Alice, her breath taken 
away by this sudden indignation; “ I spoke widely. Of course 
I respect our old and true friend, Paul. But a husband — that 
is different; it is something stronger and deeper than resjDect; 
it is reverence that a husband compels. 

“ And what can you not reverence in Doctor Annesley?’’ 


104 THE REPKOACH OF ANHESLEY. 

asked Sibyl, with such remorseless persistence that Alice be- 
gan to wonder if Paul Aimesley could be the name of him who 
had ti’oubled her friend's peace of mind. 

He is at the mercy of his own impulses,'' she said. 

“ And they are always good," pursued Sibyl, vindictively. 

“ You say a bold thing when you say that of any human 
being, Sibyl. No, I can only give my deepest reverence to the 
man who is master of himself. ‘ Give me the man that is not 
passion's slave.' I can value this one as a friend, but — no 
nearer. No one knows what is in Paul Annesley; any turn 
of fate may bring him into a totally opposite direction ; he 
might do anything. I tell you in the very strictest confidence 
what I would tell no other human being, I tremble for him 
now; he will never be the same again, now that his circum- 
stances are so changed, and what he will be. Heaven alone 
knows. As you say, he has good impulses, but what are they 
without a guiding principle and a compelling will?" 

“ And you alone can give his life a right direction," urged 
Sibyl. “ Oh, Alice! think what it is to hold this man's fate 
in your hands!" 

“ And what if I hold another — " She stopped short and 
colored. “ Dear Sibyl, you are indeed a stanch friend," she 
added, in a gentler voice. If he could win you now — a heart 
is so easily caught at the rebound. " 

“There will be no rebound," replied Sibyl, in so even a 
voice that Alice was sure of the Platonic nature of her regard 
for Paul. “ The kind of malady you inspire, you dear creat- 
ure, is incurable. People soon get over the slight shocks 1 
administer, but you are fatal." 

Alice smiled tenderly upon Sibyl, but made no rejoinder, 
and they walked on noiselessly over the rich turf, deep in 
thought. Sibyl's regard for Alice had, as the other well 
knew, something of worship; her ardent nature invested her 
friendships with a romantic enthusiasm that sometimes made 
her calmer friend smile and often called forth a gentle rebuke 
from her. Perhaps Alice's affection for the younger and more 
impetuous girl was as strong as Sibyl's, though it expressed 
itself less passionately, and had a strong dash of maternal 
compassion. Nothing had ever come between them since they 
had first met, two shy stranger girls' of thirteen, in the porch 
of Arden Manor, and instantly lost their shyness in the fellow- 
feeling it engendered between them. 

The first bar was to come that day. It happened in Daniel 
Pink's solitary thatched cottage, which was built in a nest-like 
hollow under the down. The girls entered the low porch, 


THE REPROACH OF Alfl^ESLEY. 


105 


like the welcome guests they were, and sat in the dim, smoke- 
blackened room, handling and discussing the ninth little Pink 
by turns, while the shepherd looked on with a pleased face, 
with the deposed baby in his arms and two chubby children a 
little older clinging to his knees. 

“ Look at the heft of said the proud father, entirely 
drags ye down. Miss Sibyl, ^e do. 

“ 1 wouldn^’t carry him a mile for a fortune,’^ Sibyl replied, 
kissing the little red fist, “ not for all the lands of Gledes- 
worth, shepherd.'’^ 

“ 1 ^lows you wouldnH, miss. Doctor Annesley have took 
a heavy weight on the shoulders of ^n. A many have been 
bowed down by riches, a many, as IVe a yerd zay.^' 

And many have been crushed by poverty,’’ Alice said. 

“ Zure enough. ’Tain’t fur we to zay what’s good for us. 
Miss Alice. A personable man, but a doesn’t come up to the 
captain, the doctor doesn’t.” 

“ The captain?” asked Alice, wondering. 

‘‘Oh! he is only a lieutenant. You mean Lieutenant 
Annesley, don’t you. Master Pink?” said the ready Sibyl. 

“ When 1 zeen he and you walking together. Miss Lingard,” 
continued the shepherd, gravely, “I zes to mezelf, 1 zes, 
‘ Marriages is made in heaven,’ I zes. And Mam Gale, she 
zays — ’ ’ 

“Oh! Master Pink, you won’t forget about the seedlings, 
will you?” cried Alice, starting up. “It is getting so late. 
We have stayed too long.” 

And with hasty farewells Alice left the cottage, forgetting 
the basket, and leaving Sibyl to follow in more leisurely fash- 
ion. She walked so fast that she had reached the gate at the 
end of the field through which the cottage was approached be- 
fore Sibyl had left the garden, and waited for her there, with 
flushed cheeks. Sibyl’s ready tongue was unaccountably tied 
when, she joined her; a strange pain was gnawing at her heart, 
and Alice’s attempts at commonplace chat did not succeed. 

“ I can’t help thinking that this same Mr. Edward Annesley 
might just as well write to us, Alice,” she said at last. “ That 
little note to mother the day after he left was the briefest 
formality.” 

“ Perhaps,” replied Alice, who had now regained her self- 
possession, “he thinks the same of us. You can scold him 
when he comes. ” 

“ But will he come?” asked Sibyl, with such an eagerness 
in her voice that Alice stopped on her way and looked with 
sudden misgiving into Sibyl’s dark, ardent eyes and read all. 


106 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


“ Sibyl/’ she said, “oh! Sibyl!” and she tried to draw her 
nearer; but Sibyl pushed her back with a look AJice had never 
seen before, and walked on in silence. 

In the first bitter flood of jealous agony that surged into her 
heart Sibyl felt capable of hating her friend ; then the mortify- 
ing memory of her self-deception made her so hot with self- 
contempt that every other feeling was swallowed up in it, and 
she longed for the earth to open and hide her away forever. 
It seemed as if she had better never have been born than make 
so dreadful a blunder at the very threshold of life; she thought 
she could never endure to live any more. Then things came 
back to her memory, little insignificant details which had 
passed unobserved at the time, but which now showed the gen- 
eral meaning of the whole story, just as the festal lights reveal 
the general outlines of a building, and she saw clearly how 
things stood between Edward and Alice. How could it have 
been otherwise? She felt the charm of Alice too deeply her- 
self to wonder that she should have been preferred. It was 
inevitable that those two should choose each other. But for 
her everything had come to a full stop. Entbehren soUst 
clu,” was the message the woods and fields and sea had for her 
that day; it was written in the deep, cloud-piled sky, and in 
the solemn shadows about the hills; the rooks, sailing home 
in stately chanting procession, reminded her of it, and the 
blackbirds, fluting mournfully down in the copses, repeated 
it; even the lark, fluttering upward with the beginning of a 
song and dropping back into silence, had the same meaning 
in his music. 

She paused and allowed Alice to come up with her, and see- 
ing that she had been crying, kissed her with a sort of passion. 

“ Do you remember t& day you first came to Arden, 
Alice,” she said, “ when I found you crying in your room 
after we were sent to bed?” 

“ And you comforted me, and we agreed always to be 
friends.” 

“ And now my crossness has made you cry, you poor dear! 
And you are dearer to me than anybody in the whole uni- 
verse. ” 

“Sibyl.” 

“ And there is Gervase out by the ricks wondering why we 
are so late. Let us make haste home. ” " 

Then Gervase caught sight of them and came to meet them, 
scolding them both with fraternal impartiality for being so 
late. He had lately taken to living in rooms at Medington to 


THE REPKOACH OF AHNESLEY. 


107 


save time in going and coming from business, and now ex- 
pected to be treated as a guest in his frequent visits to Arden. 

He looked at Sibyl and saw that something was wrong; and 
Alice looked at the brother and sister with a sort of remorse. 
Ill spite of Gervase's well-acted brotherliiiess, she was not sure 
that she had not driven him from his home, and now she had 
done somethiilg worse to his sister; all this was a poor requital 
to the family in which she had been received, a lonely child. 
The question now arose, how should she set these wrongs right? 
How could she stand against the iron strength of Fate? 

She felt such a helplessness as completely crushed her 
spirits; she slipped away to the solitude of her own room un- 
der the pretext of fatigue, and sat musing long at the open 
lattice. 

Gervase in the meantime had taken his violin, and, leaning 
against the great apple-tree, whence the blossom was now 
almost gone, drew his bow across the strings so that they made 
an almost human cry, a sound that never failed to bring Sibyl 
to his side, and she came out and sat in the seat beneath him, 
while he played on in silence strains so mournful and so tender 
that they drew the overcharge of feeling from her heart and 
the refreshing tears to her eyes, till the “ Enthehren sollst du, 
sollst enthehren,’^ which the lark and the breezes sung to her 
in the afternoon, seemed the sweetest refrain in the world. 

While he played, a series of pictures rose before Gervase^s 
mind, pictures in which he saw himself baffling by continual 
thrusts the fate which to Alice seemed so invincible, until he 
had bound Edward to his sister, and Alice to himself. 

Alice heard the music from her window, and it drew tears 
from her eyes. 


CHAPTER II. 

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 

It is beautiful to be on the line of rail which runs along the 
Jura; the mountain rises sheer on one side and the steep falls 
suddenly away on the other, while the traveler is borne with 
bird-like swiftness and directness along the hill-side, secure, 
without effort, straight to an apparent block which hinders 
further progress. But a closer view shows a black spot in the 
rocky mass, tiny as the nest of some sea-bird on a cliff’; it 
grows as the distance lessens, till it becomes a dark arch, and 
into that darts the train with angry thunder and impatient 
panting, and there is blackness all round, and thick air, and a 
vague distress of body and mind for awhile. Then gleams a 


108 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


pale light and a sweet rush of air follows, and out like a bird 
darts the long train, as if suspended in midair by the mount- 
ain-side, till another tiny bird-hole appears, and growing, swal- 
lows up the darting length of the train, which is soon cast 
forth once more on the open face of the steep cliff. All this 
is pleasant in itself, but still more pleasant to one who, like 
Edward Annesley, is impatient of the journey ^s length and 
anxious to reach its end. 

He bestowed various inward maledictions upon continental 
railways as he journeyed on, and wondered how such a blessing 
as steam came to bestowed upon a people so in appreciative of 
the speed to be got out of it. But the swiftest English express 
would have been slow in comparison with the winged desires 
which bore his heart onward to the goal of Alice Lingard^s 
presence. The three months^ embargo was now taken off and 
Paul was not yet engaged to Alice; Edward was therefore free 
to prosecute his own suit. 

The frontier is cleared, the interminable delay of the cus- 
toms officers at an end, and now the long sweep of the waters 
of Neufchdtel shines grayly along the shores in the dim, misty 
morning. And is this the glory of Alpine lake-land? this 
long, gray river between the low, gray shores? Where are 
the mountains? where the pearly gleam of the far-off snow- 
peaks, shaming the less ethereal luster of the white cloud- 
masses? where the blue shadows in the mountain-flanks, the 
distant hint of glacier and crevasse, the purple folds of the 
wooded spurs lower down? There is nothing but a pall of 
gray sky brooding heavily over a sheet of cold, gray water, 
ruffled slightly by the September breeze; the sedges and reeds 
about the banks rustle mournfully; a bird^s wild and desolate 
cry is heard; no boats glide over the lonely lake; the train 
creeps on, and Edward feels the inward chill of disappoint- 
ment that reality too often brings to long brooded hopes. The 
train stopped to the accompaniment of cries of “ Gran son 
he got out and strolled through the narrow street to a broad- 
eaved house with a low portal opening on the pavement, and 
was soon standing in the cool, flagged hall, clasped in the arms 
of a bright, golden-haired girl, and the center of admiring and 
sympathetic glances from other fair-haired girls who were flit- 
ting up and down the uncarpeted staircase and sighing for the 
day when fathers and brothers should come to fetch them 
away to their foreign homes. 

“ I say, Nell,'^ he remonstrated, after a resigned kiss, “ if 
this kind of thing could only be done with some attempt at 
privacy. 


THE REPROACH OF AHKESLEY. 


109 


“ I dare say/^ sobbed Eleanor, “ when I have not spoken 
English for months or seen anybody from home for a year. 
Wait till you get Heimwehy you hard-hearted thing!^^ 

“ Well, pack up your traps and let us be off to Neufchdtel 
by the next train,'’^ he said, following his sister into the august 
presence of the school-mistress, from whom he had much diffi- 
culty in wresting the required permission. Then, after being 
introduced to five of Miss Eleanor’s best friends, and dining in 
a very feminine and attenuated manner with the whole sister- 
hood, he bore her off at last in triumph by the afternoon train. 

And then a miracle happened. By this time the streets 
were flooded with the warm gold of autumn sunshine, and the 
lake waters sparkled with sapphire reflections, and lo! the heavy 
pall of gray had been swept away by unseen hands, and behind 
it, spreading away into infinite dim distances, gleaming beneath 
a clear sky, lay range upon rSinge of white, blue-shadowed 
Alps, their pure summits springing high, one above the other, 
into the very depths of the pale-blue ether overhead. There 
they lay, terrible in their snowy grandeur, dream-like in their 
marvelous beauty, tinted with the delicate transparency of 
some airy, unsubstantial pageant, and yet so real and so im- 
pressive in their massive reality. Such a repose they had in 
their naked sublimity, lying reclined like strong gods at rest, ^ 
girdling about the lake and lowlands and holding the earth 
still ill their mighty grasp. 

“ So Neufchatel is tame?” Eleanor asked, watching her 
brother’s face of rapt admiration with pleased delight. 

“ There is enchantment in it. Are there witches here- 
abouts, N'ell?” he replied. 

‘‘ Only Sibyl Rickman, who passes for something of the 
kind. So nothing came of your flirtation, Ned?” 

“ Which one?” he replied, tranquilly. “ One a week is the 
average you girls impute to me.” ^ 

“Oh! we heard all about it. Harriet wrote me some long 
letters from Aunt Eleanor’s this summer. Auntie told her 
all about Sibyl — ” 

“ I hope Miss Rickman boxed the imp’s ears well.” 

“ The Rickmans were pleased, auntie said, especially Ger- 
vase. ” 

“ Stuff I I say, Nell, tell me what those peaks are called?” 

“ Of course you have heard about Paul and Alice Lingard?” 

“ Heard what?” he asked, abruptly, facing about with a 
defiant gaze. 

“ It’s not given out yet, I believe,” replied Eleanor, tran- 
quilly, not unwilling to tantalize her brother now that she had 


110 THE KEPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 

succeeded in interesting him, ^‘but of course, as Harriet says 
(for fifteen, 1 must say, Harriet is very observant), nobody 
with half an eye can doubt what is going to happen. Paul 
was like her shadow the whole time, and when a girl accepts 
presents from a man — 

“ Do you mean to say,^^ Edward asked with slow and dis- 
tinct utterance, “ that Paul is engaged to Miss Lingard.^^^^ 

“ Didn’t I say it is not given out? But auntie already 
makes plans for herself, and decides not to live at Gledes worth 
with Alice. Not that they don’t get on well, for Alice is like 
a daughter to her, Harriet says. Everybody thinks it a great 
lift for Miss Alice. I never much admired her myself. I be- 
lieve she has an awful temper. You saw her, of course?” 

“ Of course. I was there in the spring,” he replied, ab- 
sently, and turned his face away to study the splendid vision 
of the far-spreading mountains before him. Stern and awful 
those couched giants looked now, lying so still in their snowy 
beauty; the pitiless purity of the lonely ice-peaks struck chill 
to his very soul. Why had he come? Would it not be better 
now, after escorting Eleanor on her way to join her aunt, just 
to leave her and go back? It was too great an advantage for 
Paul to be near Alice all those months; what else could have 
been expected? Naturally he would die out of her memory, 
* however strong the impression made in those few blissful days 
at Arden might have been. It was hard and bitter, but the 
only thing was to face it like a man. Yes, he would go in 
and join the party as before proposed, and see Alice once 
more — there was no fear that he should trouble her peace, ap- 
pearing thus at the eleventh hour. AH the circumstances, 
which at the time had seemed so strong in confirming the hope 
that she returned his feelings — airy, inessential things, as they 
were, tones, glances, the turn of a head, the quiver of a lip, 
the faltering of an even step — faded into nothingness now; 
^probably she had never even guessed at his own devotion; so 
much the better. 

‘‘ So that is the Jungfrau,” he said at last, in response to 
Eleanor’s long catalogue of summits and ranges. “ No? 
Oh, you mean that? Yes. Very fine. Yes.” There were 
tears in his eyes when his sister looked down at him, and his 
face was quite pale, which signs she set down to emotion at 
the first glimpse of Alpine splendor. 

“ When was Harriet at Medington?” he asked, suddenly. 

“ Just now. She left in time for auntie to start. She was 
awfully sorry to go; she wanted to see things come to a crisis. 
I am to watch progress and describe the denouement, 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLET. 


Ill 


“ Are you? AYell, don^t begin match-making yet awhile, 
for pity^s sake. When were postage-stamps invented? What 
was Nero^s leading virtue? Upon what principle were Greek 
armies raised? Who first used hair-pins, and why? I hope 
you know something besides how to chatter French, miss, 
since your education is finished.'’^ 

It was growing dusk when they reached Neufchdtel. The 
lights were beginning to twinkle out in the streets and to 
double themselves in the clear and waveless lake, and, as they 
gradually drew nearer to the hotel whither they were bound, 
the memories of the few days Edward had passed with Alice 
became more imperative; he especially felt the power of those 
moments during which they had strolled alone together to the 
little inn upon the downs, and it seemed to him that what had 
then passed between them, unspoken though it was, could 
never be erased from either life, whatever spell PauFs pas- 
sionate wooing might since then have cast upon her. The first 
glance in her face, when they met, would tell him all, he 
thought, and his pulse quickened, and a subtle warmth quiv- 
ered all through him, as he saw to the piling of his sister^s 
luggage on the omnibus, while the moments fled which were 
to bring him face to face with Alice. 

‘‘ Let us walk on, Nellie,^^ he said at last, rebelling against 
the slowness with which the loading of the omnibus went on, 
and he led her along the streets at a pace which took her 
breath away, down-hill though the path was, and did not stop 
till they found themselves in the broad hall of the hotel, in- 
quiring for Mrs. Annesley’s apartments. Two ladies were in 
the shadowy, unlighted room; one was Mrs. Annesley, who 
rose with her accustomed stateliness and folded Eleanor in her 
arms with a welcoming kiss, and then received Edward more 
coldl}’’, and formally thanked him for escorting his sister from 
school, intimating that Paul could have done it equally well, 
and politely conveying to him the impression, which was but 
too correct, that he had much better have remained in Eng- 
land. 

But, my dear aunt,^^ he replied, revolting against this cod 
reception, ‘‘ I had intended from the very first to be one of 
the Swiss party, if you remember. We arranged it all in the 
spring, and I only delayed joining you because my leave could 
not conveniently begin before. 

‘‘ W^e have heard so little of you since the spring, Edward,^^ 
she replied, icily, ‘‘ that it was not unnatural to suppose you 
had thought better of your intention.'’^ 

These words he felt were a prophecy of what Alice must 


112 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLET. 


have been saying in her heart, if indeed she had ever given him 
a thought, and he turned to the other lady, from addi/essing 
whom a strong shyness had held him, and who, though she 
had risen, yet remained in the deep shadow of a recess .by the 
window; looking her for the first time full in the face, he met 
the dark, sweet gaze of Sibyl, whereupon his owji eyes fell and 
his shyness with it, and he shook hands with her with a cordial 
greeting and unembarrassed smile. 

“ Do say you are glad to see me. Miss Eickman,^^ he said; 

my aunt has so cruelly crushed me that I require some com- 
fort from somebody. 

“I am glad to see you, though surprised, pleasantly sur- 
prised,^^ she replied, with loyal simplicity, and as she spoke 
Edward suddenly and unaccountably began to think of Viola, 
when she held that memorable conversation with the duke, “ I 
am all the daughters of my father^s house, and yet I know 
not — 

What connection could there be between Viola and Sibyl? 
yet ever after he could not think of Viola unless associated 
with Sibyl. 

“ And I know somebody else will be pleasantly surprised to 
see you/’ she added, with a gentle smile, and then his heart 
began to beat again, and he listened for the beloved name. 
“ Perhaps you do not know,'’^ she added, guilelessly, what a 
liking^ Gervase has for you.^^ 

“ Gfervase! oh, Gervase!’^ he echoed, disenchanted. “So 
your brother is here? That is all right. He was afraid, I re- 
member, he would not be able to leave his business. 

“ Gervase always contrives to get his way somehow, business 
or no business,^-’ she reiDlied. “ But here he is to speak for 
himself. 

And Gervase came in and received him with the greatest 
cordiality, though he too expressed surprise at his appearance. 
“Your telegram to Paul gave us all a pleasing shock, he 
said. “ Paul turned quite pale with pleasure,^^ he added, 
laughing, and unconsumed by the fiery glance which Mrs. 
Annesley^s blue eyes darted at him. 

“ And where is Paul?^^ asked Edward, whose e3^es kept 
turning expectantly to the door, and whom some unaccounta- 
ble feeling held from inquiring for the one object of his solici- 
tude. 

“ And where is Annesley, by the way?’^ echoed Gervase, 
turning to the ladies with an indifferent air. 

“ I think,^' replied Mrs. Annesley, “ that they went on the 
lake together, dear children! It is getting late for them.^^ 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 113 

“ Who are they Edward asked, with unaccustomed 
roughness. 

“ Do not ask too many questions, you tiresome fellow; 
never call attention to these things. I must leave you now,^^ 
she replied. “ Come, Nellie, child, you will scarcely be ready 
in time for dinner;’^ and Mrs. Annesley swept from the room 
like some majestic frigate of old days, with her niece in her 
train as a little gun-boat; while Sibyl followed at some dis- 
tance, with a look toward Edward which he was too irate to 
perceive, but which meant, “ I should like to tell you all about 
it and relieve you from causeless fears. 

“ Look here, Eickman,^^ cried Edward, turning round and 
facing him with a glance so flaming that Gervase was obliged 
to meet it. “ Tell me the truth, will you? Is Paul engaged 
to Miss Lingard or not?^'’ 

“ No — was the word surprised from him by this unex- 
pected assault. “Ah! that is — I mean- — You heard what 
your aunt said, ‘ These things are better not talked about. ^ 
To call attention to them often spoils them. Things, you see, 
are just now in a most delicate stage. There is no doubt 
whatever about the issue of it; but the engagement is not yet 
announced, that’s all. You’ve dropped upon us at an awk- 
ward moment, you see, and your aunt is not overcome with 
rapture at the sight of you — an outsider makes a certain dis- 
turbance — precipitates matters. I fancy they would like to 
prolong the present undecided state — to proclaim the engage- 
ment would draw attention to themselves, which, of course, is 
a frightful bore. ” 

“ Then the sooner the engagement is proclaimed the bet- 
ter,” cried Edward, grimly. “ My aunt should be more care- 
ful of a young lady committed to her charge. I should never 
permit anything of the kind in the case of my sisters.” 

“ Nor should I, Annesley, to be quite frank,” returned 
Eickman, becoming suddenly confidential. •“ I have but one 
sister, but 1 should be extremely sorry for the man who vent- 
ured to pay marked attentions to her without coming to the 
point — very sorry for him,” he added, with a grim pleasantry 
that was lost upon his hearer. “ But, you see. Miss Lingard 
is not your sister or mine either, and Mrs. Annesley is not 
under our charge, and Switzerland ranks next to our own be- 
loved and befogged island as a free country. Have you found 
your room yet? 1 hear it is next to mine, and has a splendid 
outlook over the lake.” 

Edward followed him, vexed at his momentary loss of self- 
control, and after taking possession of his apartment and find- 


/ 

/ 

114 THE KEPROACH OF AHNESLET. 

ing there were some moments to be filled yet before the hour 
of table dhote, strolled out by the water-side with Kickman. 

The glorious autumn sunset bad silently consumed itself, the 
rich colors were all calmed down into a tender primrose glow 
in the west, and the pensive twilight was dreaming with ever- 
deepening intensity upon the bosom of the clear, dark waters. 
Lights from the town looked, half ashamed of their own in- 
significance, into the pure lake depths, one or two pale stars 
gazed steadfastly into the deep heart of the waters, boats glided 
silent and ghcst-like over the still surface, voices came soft- 
ened through the quieting evening, the noises of the town 
blended murmuringly, the majestic peace of the mountains 
brooded over all. The tumult in Ed ward ^s warm young heart 
quieted beneath these sweet, calm influences, some feeling of 
the nothingness of human emotion in the presence of the In- 
finite came upon him, and he felt that he could meet Alice and 
part with her with becoming calm, even cheerfulness, and 
clasp PauTs hand with brotherly warmth in congratulating 
him. “ Dear old Paul! Heaven bless him!^^ he said within 
himself, as he watched a boat containing two figures glide 
noiselessly toward the tiny quay in the hotel grounds. 

An attendant caught the painter and moored the dim bark 
to the landing; the oarsman leaped to land, and turning, 
handed a second figure, a lady^s, out of the boat. Then the 
two walked arm in arm with slow, lingering steps toward the 
terrace wall, over which Edward and Gervase were leaning, 
and passed along beneath them. There is a certain manner 
of walking, a kind of pensive pausing upon every step as if to 
linger out the pleasure of it, with a certain inclination of the 
taller head to that beneath it, accompanied by a low and liquid 
intonation of the voice, which Edward had always been pleased 
to consider as proper to lovers, and lovers only, and such, he 
assured himself, these two people undoubtedly were. 

The lingering step bore them just before and beneath the wall 
on which he leaned, and a shaft of hot and piercing pain shot 
through his breast, as in the nearest face he recognized PauPs, 
transfigured by feeling, and knew that the graceful figure at 
his side must be that of Alice. There was no need for Kick- 
man to draw him aside with an observation to the effect that 
they had better not disturb the tete-d-Ute. He shrunk at once 
into the shadow and let them pass well out of sight, and then 
returned silently to the lighted hotel. 

“ Well, 1 donT think any one can spoil sport after that, 
Annesley,^^ Rickman said, lightly, with a quick gaze in Ed- 
ward’s face, which was composed but rather grim. “ Now is 


THE REPROACH OE AETKESLEY. 115 

Sibyl’s time, if she only knew it,” he thought; “ his heart is 
soft with pain and ready for fresh impressions.” And, 
although people were already going in to dinner, he found 
time to. whisper to Sibyl to take pity on the new arrival and 
make him as welcome as possible, because the rest of the party 
were inclined to leave him out in the cold, and by his arrange- 
ment Edward’s chair was placed next Sibyl’s. 

The soup was nearly finished by the time Paul entered. He 
did not shake hands with Edward, his seat being on the oppo- 
site side of the table, but merely nodded a welcome to him, 
hoped he had not found it too hot in the train, and addressed 
some cousinly and affectionate words to Eleanor, who stood a 
little in awe of her exalted kinsman. Mrs. Annesley was in 
her most seraphic mood and said pleasant things to everybody. 
Sibyl tried to obey her brother’s behest with regard to Ed- 
ward, who was quite ready to respond to her gentle advances. 
The little party was most pleasant and friendly. But every 
time the door opened there was a simultaneous, though almost 
imperceptible movement of Edward’s head, and a subsequent 
look of disappointment on his face; the soup he swallowed 
might have been ink, for all he knew or cared; the course was 
removed, and still Alice did not appear, and no one seemed 
disturbed about it. 

“But where is Miss Lingard?” he asked at last. 

“ Dear Alice is a little upset. She was out rather too long, 
I think,” Mrs. Annesley replied, with an air of mystery; “ she 
will be quite restored to-morrow, no doubt.” 

Then Sibyl explained to him that Alice had overtired her- 
self in a mountain excursion which she had recently made with 
some friends who were staying at a village a few miles away, 
along the lake shore. Further, that Mrs. Annesley had in- 
tended to drive to meet her, but had been prevented, and that 
Paul had gone instead, but in a boat; that he had lost an oar 
and thqs b^een delayed. The end of the history was, Alice was 
so completely knocked up that but for Paul’s arm she could 
not have walked from the boat to the hotel. 

“ I didn’t go up the mountain myself for the sunrise,” she 
added, “ because 1 was not feeling equal to such a tiring walk; 
but Alice is always perfectly well, and people never expect 
her to be overtired. It was a good thing Mr. Annesley was 
with her, because he knew exactly how to treat her when she 
fainted.” 

“ Did he, indeed?” responded .Edward. And over a succes- 
sion of pipes he pondered much that night upon the sunrise 
excursion. 


116 


THE REPROACH OF ANKESLEY, 


CHAPTER III. 

ON THE BALCONY. 

It was not till the next afternoon, when they were at coffee; 
sitting under the plane-trees by the water, that Edward met 
Alice; and by that time he had so schooled himseK into ac- 
cepting PauTs superior claim upon her that he was able to 
command a perfectly tranquil and friendly manner toward 
her. 

Paul and Gervase had been closeted together all the morn- 
ing, on affairs which seemed to have urgency. Mrs. Annesley 
had at times been admitted to the conference, and had other- 
wise pursued the extensive and interesting correspondence for 
which she was celebrated. Edward and Sibyl had taken the 
eager school-girl, who was half intoxicated by her recent final 
deliverance from thralldom, to see such lions as Neufchatel 
afforded. 

But all these occupations had now come to an end, and the 
whole party were assembled beneath the sun-steeped plane- 
tops, with the. clear, massive jewel of the deep blue lake before 
them, when Alice issued from the hotel and joined them. 

It was a change upon Paul’s face, which was directed toward 
the lake at her coming, that arrested Edward’s attention, and 
caused him to look round and catch sight of the figure in white 
moving slowly toward them. She was pale, but not otherwise 
altered from when he last saw her, save that the look which 
had remained before him ever since he parted with her in the 
bustling street at Medington was gone, and gone, as he feared, 
forever. 

“ I was so sorry to be unable to see you last night,” she 
said, with a tranquil smile, and a slight pained quiver of the^ 
lip, which he did not understand, and she took the liand he 
offered as coldly as he gave it, while they both thought of the 
warm pressure of a few months since. 

He replied by some expression of regret for her illness, and 
handing her his own chair, placed another for himself near it, 
unconscious of the intensity with which the meeting was be- 
ing watched. Paul had closed his mouth fiercely and firmly, 
while the breath came strong and quick through his nostrils, 
and his hands clinched themselves. Gervase gave one of his 
sidelong glances, and placing one hand in his pocket, broke a 
pencil into fragments with his fingers. Mrs. Annesley looked 
on the pair with head erect, and a peculiar smile that her son 


THE REPROACH OE AHHESLEY. 


117 


knew, but in this instance did not notice. Sibyl regarded 
them with a tender, yearning gaze. It is wonderful to think 
of the storm and tumult of varying passions that was stirred 
in these different hearts by the simple incident of two people 
meeting and exchanging commonplace observations in renewal 
of an acquaintance of a few days formed a few months since. 
Eleanor alone considered the incident too trivial for observa- 
tion, and continued chatting to her aunt about their pleasant 
morning ramble, and the delicious ices Edward gave them. 

When the pair sat down, and Alice addressed some remark 
to Mrs. Annesl'ey in deprecation of the latter's displeasure at 
her leaving the room, the pressure on all those hearts relaxed; 
Paul's stormy face calmed, Gervase regretted the destruction 
of his pencil, Mrs. Annesley wore her most engaging smile, 
but Sibyl's sweet face had a disappointed look. 

I felt so perfectly rested, I was obliged to get up, Mrs. 
Annesley, in spite of the doctor's orders," Alice said. 

“ You will repent, Alice, and Annesley will enjoy a savage 
triumph over your certain relapse, which you deserve for tak- 
ing no notice of me," said Gervase, handing her some coffee. 

“ There are two Mr. Annesleys now, and we have not even 
the distinction of doctor to help us, since Paul has become so 
grand," said Sibyl, innocently. 

“ I only wish I had my promotion to help you to the dis- 
tinction of captain. Miss Sibyl," replied Edward; “ as it is, 
Paul is the Annesley — the head of the clan." 

“ And if Paul dies, Ned will be the Annesley," Eleanor 
added, cheerfully. 

“ I am sorry I can't oblige you just yet, Nellie," said Paul, 
pinching her cheek, while his mother frowned Edward 
laughed, and said he would quite as soon have a live cousin as 
a landed estate, which Gervase considered as a polite inversion 
of fact. 

“ And why did you knock yourself up in this cruel manner. 
Miss Lingard?" Edward asked. 

Alice replied that it was very usual for people to overtire 
themselves on mountain excursions, a thing that persons of 
taste did not regret, since it quickly wore off and was but a 
small price to pay for the delight of seeing the sun rise upon 
the Alps; that she had- been unlucky in getting no rest in the 
little hut in which she had passed the night, and still more in 
being unable to get any food, since she could not eat that pro- 
vided. ‘‘ And to crown all," she added, “ 1 had to come home 
in an uncomfortable boat instead of a luxurious carriage." 

“ And Paul lost an oar, too?" asked Edward. 


118 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 

“ Yes, but that was my fault, she replied, coloring. I 
must needs go and faint instead of steering, and Mr. Annes- 
ley’s hands were overfull. 

Paul colored even more than Alice at the mention of this in- 
cident, and made no observation. Edward was consumed with 
indignation with him for having taken the weary girl alone in 
a boat, an indignation that Paul echoed inwardly, though he 
half justified himself by the consideration that it was his last 
chance and a desperate one. 

“ I should have thought a doctor ought to have known bet- 
ter,’^ Edward said, with some heat; but Gervase quickly re- 
joined that doctors invariably do the most imprudent things, 
which Mrs. Annesley confirmed by narratives of her sainted 
husband^s unintentional cruelty to herself. 

Alice regretted now that she had not given up the Swiss 
tour, as she had wished to do when PauPs intentions were 
made manifest to her just before they started. But he had 
begged her with such insistence, and had so pledged himself to 
refrain from reopening a question she thought finally settled, 
and there were so many other reasons, chiefly concerning 
Sibyl, whose wounded heart she had hoped to heal both by the 
change and enjoyment thus atforded and by the clear under- 
standing she would gain of Edward’s views, that she had 
yielded. 

And now Edward was there, but he had forgotten all that 
occurred at Arden, while Sibyl — she feared that Sibyl remem- 
bered too much. Else she had misread the luster in Sibyl’s 
dark eyes and the peculiar exaltation in her face when she 
bent over her for a good-night kiss the evening before. 

For some time after Annesley’s visit to Arden in April, the 
postman’s well-knowji step had brought an unacknowledged 
tremor to the hearts of both girls whenever he passed before 
the window to the kitchen door, where there was always a wel- 
coming word and a cup of drink for him. As day after day 
went by, and no new and unknown handwriting appeared on 
the letters delivered, an increasir^ sense of disappointment, 
which she neither owned nor analyzed, took the luster out of 
the sunshine and the beauty from the waxing summer for 
Alice, while Sibyl grew impatient and half indignant, she 
scarcely knew why. Once, a few days after his departure, 
Mrs. Rickman received a letter from Edward, which she read 
out for the public benefit, a formal little epistle thanking her 
for his brief and pleasant visit, and containing conventional 
greetings to the whole family. Gradually the postman’s step 
evoked a slighter tremor in the girls’ hearts, and the keenness 


THE REPROACH OP AHHESLEY. 


119 


of the vague daily discontent wore off; the impending tour 
was discussed without reference to Edward, and Alice felt that 
whatever power she might have had over his thoughts was now 
gone. All those signs and tokens of deepest meaning in his 
words and looks were doubtless misconstructions of her own. 
He had been charmed only for a moment, and superficially; 
she had never touched his heart, and he had now forgotten 
the passing fancy. Or he might have been charmed to the 
extent of perceiving danger, and for that very reason have de- 
cided, like the sensible man he seemed to be, not to follow up 
an acquaintance that might lead him into undesirable paths. 
While she reasoned thus, Aliceas cheek lost a little of its youth- 
ful bloom, and her manner acquired a certain listlessness; she 
blarned herself for having been so ready to misconstrue the 
passing interest of a stranger, and decided that it was highly 
unbecoming to allow him any place in her thoughts, hoping 
that Sibyl had the strength to make the same decision. 

In the meantime PauFs attentions, though delicate and un- 
obtrusive, had been unremitting: he had told his mother of 
his heart’s desire, and enlisted her on his side; thus Mrs. An- 
nesley’s powerful influence had been brought to bear upon 
Alice, who always had a certain tenderness for the stately, soli- 
tary woman, with her external coldness and inward passion, 
whose very weaknesses appealed to the younger woman’s 
generous and calmer nature. 

The intelligence that Edward was to join them at Neuf- 
chAtel, as his sister’s escort, did not reach Alice, who was ab- 
sent at the time it came, till the day of her return with Paul 
from the mountain excursion, an occasion which he had made 
for himself and utilized for a forinal proposal of marriage. It 
was then that the oar had been lost, and that, in a final pas- 
sionate appeal for mercy, he had betrayed his consuming jeal- 
ousy of Edward, and spoken of the latter’s expected arrival. 
Their solitary situation in the boat together, the vehemence of 
the fiery-hearted man and. the passion with which he urged his 
suit, frightened the weary girl, and had, as Paul well knew, as 
much to do with the fainting fit as the mountain climbing; 
and now, as Alice sat under the plane-trees with the cousins, 
knowing what was in Paul’s heart, and seeing Edward serenely 
polite and indifferent, she began to ponder some excuse for 
leaving the party. 

There had been little communication between the cousins 
since their altercation in the garden at Medington; Edward 
had written to congratulate Paul upon his altered circum- 
stances when he inherited the Gledesworth estates, and Paul 


120 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


had replied with cold formality, informing him that in the 
event of his dying unmarried, the landed property (which was 
not entailed) was to pass to him, as it would in case he left no 
will. Edward thanked him for his kindly intention, express- 
ing the hope that circumstances would render it of no effect, 
and nothing more passed between them. 

A letter Edward wrote to Mrs. Annesley was unanswered, a 
circumstance that made little impression upon him. Paul 
had told his mother of what had occurred between himself and 
Edward in the garden that spring afternoon, and at the same 
time had spoken of his wishes concerning Alice, and Mrs. 
Annesley, though obliged to acknowledge that Edward had 
borne himself honorably in a very trying position, had taken 
sides against him as PauPs rival and enemy, and her former 
liking for her nephew had turned to a dislike commensurate 
with the intensity of her nature. 

But Edward, though he could not help seeing that his ar- 
rival was unwelcome to his aunt, had no suspicion of all this; 
he expected to be petted as usual, not dreaming that Paul 
would have spoken of the false position in which they found 
themselves, or of the compact they had made respecting it. 
Neither did he think that his presence was now unwelcome to 
Paul, since the latter had, as he thought, won his point. He 
was thus unconscious of being a cause of offense to any one 
and perfectly tranquil at heart, having subdued the rebellious 
feelings of disappointed love, and did his best that afternoon 
to be pleasant and sociable, in spite of Paul’s grimness and his 
aunt’s chilling majesty. Gervase, too, was in a genial mood, 
and Sibyl was unusually animated, and took up her former 
bantering tone toward Edward, who liked it. 

In the evening the young people went for a starlight row on 
the lake, intending to linger about for the rising of the moon; 
Paul excused himself on tlie plea of letter-writing, and Alice 
on the ground of her recent fatigue. They were stepping into 
the boat, when Edward’s foot slipped, and he fell full length 
into the water between the boat and the quay, and had to go 
back to change his soaked clothes, leaving the other three, to 
Gervase’s chagrin, to go for their row alone. 

Thus it happened that when he was fit to be seen again he 
strolled out on the gallery in search of cool air and quiet, and 
so encountered Alice, whom Mrs. Annesley, unsuspiciously 
nodding over a newspaper in her sitting-room, supposed to 
have gone to bed. When they saw each other the two young 
hearts began to beat with sympathetic vehemence, and at first 
each was inclined to avoid the other and beat a retreat, an in- 


THE REPROACH OF AHKESLEY. 131 

clination conquered by the better feeling of each — some pride 
in Alice, which rebelled against acknowledging her weakness, 
a loyal determination on Edward’s part to accept the situation 
and let no weak emotion conquer him. He therefore ap- 
proached the chair she occupied, and, half seating himself on 
the gallery rail with his back against a pillar, began in an un- 
embarrassed strain to explain his return from the boat, and to 
continue a conversation they had carried on at coffee about 
various homely topics connected with Arden, the health of 
Raysh Squire, the gray mare, the dairy, and so forth. 

“ I wonder that you remember these trifles, Mr. Annesley,” 
Alice said; “ though, indeed, they are the chief interests of 
our lives. 

There are things one can not forget,’’ he replied, safe in 
his conviction that there was no more hope or fear with regard 
to her heart; “ certainly not such sunny memories as I have 
of my little visit to Arden. Not,” he added, rather inconse- 
quently, “ that 1 expect Arden people to remember it.” 

“ I think Arden people’s memories were not unpleasant,” 
she replied. 

‘‘But you had forgotten about my part of the tour,” he 
urged, with a slight tincture of reproach. “ You were sur- 
prised to see me.” 

“ We thought you had forgotten,” she answered; “ or that 
you had changed your mind — that it was but a passing inten- 
tion — a ‘ one of these fine days ’ affair, as Mr. Rickman says,” 
and Edward’s heart leaped up at this admission that she had 
thought and speculated so much upon it. 

“ You see I had not forgotten,” he replied with gentle re- 
proach; “ I intended it from the first, and have been building 
on it all the summer.” 

“ Yes,” she replied with a neutral accent and a faint sigh 
which might have been fatigue. Her eyes were turned from 
him, she gazed pensively across the wide lake, lying dark be- 
neath the stars, and upon the dim masses of the vast mount- 
ains, spectral in the uncertain light, with her cheek resting 
wearily on her hand. Edward looked down upon the quiet 
face, which was lighted up by the lamp within the room, with 
kindling eyes and a swift, hot stir of uncomprehended eino- 
tion. She did not seem happy, as a newly affianced bride 
should; his heart yearned strongly over her, and his breath 
came quick. He could not speak, nor could she; the silence 
deepened about them and folded them round as if in a close 
embrace; it grew so intense, that each thought the other must 
hear sounding through it the heart-beats which told the too 


122 THE REPROACH OF AKHESLEY. 

rapid minutes. For a moment he felt his self-control going 
ill the stress of that silent communion, felt that he must speak 
out, and lay his heart’s devotion, vain as it was, at her feet; a 
quiver went through him, he grasped the balcony rail with a 
fiercer grip; he had already unclosed his lips to speak, when 
Alice, under the pressure of his unseen but ardent glance, 
averted her head, and so shaded it with her hand that he could 
no longer see her features; she thus overset the delicate poise 
of feeling; had she turned to meet his glance, as she dared not, 
it would all have been different, the currents of many lives 
would have been diverted: He mastered the impulse with an 
eft'ort; loyalty to Paul, the chivalry which shrunk from giving 
her needless pain, a sort of deference to his own manhood, all 
sprung up in answer to the turn of her head, and helped him 
to subdue himself, and break the sweet and passionate silence 
with calm and measured words. 

No wonder that others forget,” he said; “ three months 
is a long time to keep a commonplace conversation in one’s 

“Yes; three months is a long time,” Alice replied, not 
dreaming that she had changed the current of their lives by 
that slight movement of the head, and not thinking on what 
airy and infinitesimal trifle fates are balanced; “ and so many 
things have happened this summer. Your cousin has become 
since then another person, or rather personage.” 

“He has indeed! Lucky fellow! This will be a fateful 
summer in his memory.” 

“ Then we have lost Gervase,” continued Alice, tranquilly. 
“ And since the election, when he came out so strongly as a 
political speaker, he has become more and more immersed in 
politics, and is beginning quite a fresh career.” 

“ Eickman is a clever fellow,” said Edward, glad that the 
tension of feeling was relaxed. 

“ No one suspects the power that is in him; we shall hear 
more of Gervase some day. When once he is in Parliament, 
he will make a stir. He is the kind of man who makes revo- 
lutions, or arrests them at the critical moment.” 

“ How fortunate he is in having a friend who thinks so 
highly of him!” returned Edward, jealously angry at this 
prophecy. 

“Not more highly than he deserves, as you will see if you 
live long enough. Few people know him as well as I do. 1 
am his sister, and yet a stranger. 1 have all the intimate 
knowledge of a sister, and none of the natural bias. Sibyl is 
too like him to appraise him properly.” 


THE EEPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


123 


“ Miss Rickman strikes me as the greater genius of the 
two,’^ said Edward, and she is so charming/’ 

“ Isn’t she?” replied Alice, flushing up with enthusiasm, 
and meeting his now softened gaze fully, while she launched 
out into an affectionate panegyric of her friend. “ I am so 
glad that you like her,” she said at last, “ and I am sure that 
the more you know her the better you will like her. ” 

The moon had now risen above the silent hill-peaks, it was 
shedding its mystic glory over the calm bosom of the waters, 
and touching Alice’s radiant, uplifted face, whence all trace of 
self- remembrance had fled. The influences of the hour were 
potent, the danger signals throbbed in Edward’s breast; once 
more he clutched the gallery rail, and thought of the loyalty 
he owed to Paul. 

You are a friend worth having,” he said at length, sub- 
duing himself to a cold and even utterance; ‘‘ some day, per- 
haps ” — here the romantic influences threatened to overwhelm 
him again, and he paused to recover himself — “ you may enter 
me — if I prove myself in any way worthy, that is — upon the 
list of friends — that is — I hope you may.” 

Alice quivered slightly, moved by the glowing incoherence 
of his words, then she summoned all her pride to resist the 
rising tenderness and hope within her, and looked him directly 
in the face, where she saw nothing but serene friendliness, and 
wondered a little. 

Surely you may if you like,” she replied with frank in- 
difference; and Edward, yielding to a stronger impulse, took 
her hand, and pressed it too warmly, so that Alice colored, 
and withdrew it with gentle firmness; then Edward, who was 
just going to make some allusion to the connection about to 
be formed, as he supposed, between them, started violently, 
and stood upright, gazing at something behind her. Alice 
turned then, and saw, quivering with jealousy, and white with 
anger, the face of Paul. 

Neither of the three spoke for a few minutes; the two on 
the balcony gazed as if thunder-struck at Paul’s blazing eyes 
and defiant features, to which the bluish-white moonlight im- 
parted an unearthly tint. Long afterward they remembered 
that silent gaze, and heard, in memory, the strains which now 
in reality touched their ears, as the notes of Gervase’s violin 
floated uncertainly over the water, melancholy, passionate and 
pleading. 

I am delighted to find you well enough to be still sitting 
up,” said Paul at last, in a cold, hard voice: to which Alice 
^replied that she was now quite recovered from her fatigue, 


124 


THE KEPEOACn OF AHHESLEY. 


and intended to wait up for the boating-party^s return. Ed- 
ward then observed that it was extremely pleasant on the gal- 
lery, and that he was not sorry to have missed the row on the 
lake. 

“ I suppose not,^^ returned Paul, icily; there are few 
things more charming than to be on a balcony in the moon- 
light with congenial society. 

“ And charming music, added Alice, with a faint tinge of 
defiance; “ either Gervase is excelling himself, or the water 
and the distance combine to make his playing unusually good 
to-night. ^ ^ 

“ And the listener's mood doubtless, continued Paul, with 
a smile that was like the flash of a steel blade. 

The wild notes of the violin came nearer and nearer; PauPs 
passionate glance was riveted on Edward’s face, which looked 
unusually handsome in its almost stern composure under the 
moon-rays, the beauty of the face maddened him; in the hot 
jealousy which consumed his heart he hated Edward with a 
strong hatred that almost surpassed the passion of his love for 
Alice; for one wild moment he was impelled to»spring upon 
him, and hurl him backward into the depths below. 

Instead of which he returned to the sitting-room, where 
Mrs. Annesley, aroused from her evening doze by the three 
voices at the window, was now alert and observant, and began 
to chide Alice gently for sitting up so late while her mind was 
severely exercised to account for the presence of the other 
two. 


CHAPTEE IV. 

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS. 

On the day following this memorable evening, Mrs. Annes- 
ley ’s party had decided to make the excursion into the Jura 
Mountains, where Gervase assured Alice she would find some 
new and delightful subjects for her sketch-book. He had but 
a brief time to spare for holiday-making, and not being very 
good at real mountain climbing, made a great point of their 
going into those green solitudes while he was still with them, 
thus leaving them to take the snow mountains after his de- 
parture. Alice, who was now quite at her ease with him, hav- 
ing assured herself that he had completely subdued his passing 
fancy for her, was loath to disappoint him, else she would have 
found an excuse for returning to England and thus saving her- 
self and Paul the embarrassment of frequent meetings. 

Mrs. Annesley, too, sought a pretext for breaking up the 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


125 


party, the harmony of which had been so fatally marred by 
her nephew’s appearance; she feared that a crisis had been 
reached during Paul’s row with Alice on the afternoon of Ed- 
ward’s arrival, but had no certain knowledge to act upon; she 
reflected, however, that Edward could as easily see Alice at 
home as upon this excursion, if he were minded to see her, 
and therefore came to the conclusion that things had better 
take their course. Edward went, partly for the pleasure of 
being with Alice, and partly because he was too proud to ac- 
cept the part of a disappointed suitor, and wished to cultivate 
friendly relations with Paul and his affianced wife. But he 
wondered that the engagement was not made public, and de- 
cided to put the question point-blank to Paul, considering that 
he had a right to know how matters stood. 

Paul, however, held him at arm’s-length, and there was no 
opportunity of coming to an explanation before they started 
upon that ill-fated tour. Paul had taken a fancy to have some 
old family jewels reset for his mother in Switzerland in re- 
membrance of this his. first lengthy excursion with her, and 
was busy that morning in getting them from the jeweler’s. 
When Mrs. Annesley saw them, she was so dismayed at the 
idea of traveling about with gems of such value in her posses- 
sioii, that she begged him to take them back to the jeweler, 
and let him keep them until their return to England. 

He was a little vexed that she would not wear the brooch 
and ear-rings, at least in the evenings, and fought against her 
declaration that she would imperil neither her maid’s life nor 
her own by carrying such valuables about; but at last, in the 
presence of the whole party, who had been admiring the orna- 
ments, consented to take them back, and tossed the morocco 
case carelessly into his breast-pocket. 

“ 1 believe it is all superstition,” he said; “you take the 
Annesley jewels for the Nibelungen Hoard. You forget 
that the family curse is attached to the laiid alone.” 

Then he went out into the town for the purpose, as every 
one supposed, of placing the packet in safety at the jeweler’s. 
When he returned to the hotel he fell in with Gervase, who 
was sitting under the plane-trees by the water-side, studying 
some papers intently, and making rapid notes upon them. 

Paul looked sp earnestly upon his thoughtful face, before he 
withdrew in the intention of not disturbing him, that Rick- 
man, who could see things with liis eyes shut, and perceived 
that Paul wished to disburden his mind of something, threw 
hfs papers aside in pure charity, saying that he had finished 
making his notes. 


126 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLET. 


“ What a fellow you are/^ Paul said, admiringly; “ even in 
your holiday-time you get through half a dozen men^s work!^^ 

“ I am no drone,” replied Gervase; “ but I like a little play 
too.” 

“Look here, Kickman,” continued Paul, “you are very 
keen at detecting motives. Do you know why Edward Annes- 
ley joined us?” 

“ Yes,” replied Gervase, calmly, “ he came to pay his ad- 
dresses to Miss Lingard. He made up his mind to do so at 
Arden.” 

“ Why then did he not communicate with her all this 
time?” he continued in his impetuous way. 

“ Did he not communicate with her?” replied Gervase, in- 
nocently; “ why should you suppose that?” 

The suggestion was as sparks to tinder in PauPs jealous 
heart. Why, indeed, should he suppose that? He leaped at 
once to the conclusion that Edward had written. “ He was 
on the gallery alone with her last night,” he added, in such 
tragic accents as befitted one making an accusation of mortal 
sin. » 

“ Was he? 1 thought that accident singularly opportune,^^ 
returned Gervase, as if struck by a new idea. “ On the gal- 
lery in the moonlight — ah! One caii see that your cousin 
means business.” 

“ Yet they never met till the spring. They know so little 
of each other,” said Paul, looking gloomily at the sparkling 
water over which boats were flitting rapidly in the sunshine. 

“ These things are soon done. Besides, the very fact of 
their knowing so little of each other heightens the romance of 
the situation,” continued Gervase, furtively studying PauPs 
tortured face from under his eyelashes, and then looking with 
an interested air at a vessel discharging its cargo, a little dis- 
tance off. “ Boy and girl affairs seldom come to anything. 
The way to prevent two young people taking a fancy to each 
other is to throw them constantly together under the most 
prosaic circumstances, and let them get a thorough knowledge 
of each other's weaknesses. No man is a hero to his valet. 
Do you remember old Robinson, who used to live — ” 

“ Oh, 1 know that story!” Paul interrupted, impatiently. 
“ You are a keen observer, Rickman, and when, may I ask, 
did you first observe that Edward, as you say, meant business, 
and what do you suppose are his chances of success?” 

“ 1 confess that I keep my eyes open in going through the 
world, Annesley. And 1 think your cousin has about as good 
a chance of success as anybody ever had. It’s rather a pity. 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 127 

She ought to make a better match. Besides that, 1 doubt if 
he cares for her — I think I know whom he would have chosen 
but for golden reasons on the other side. Though, to be sure, 
these military men flirt right and left without the smallest re- 
gard to consequences.^^ 

“We thought Sibyl was the attraction — 

“ So she was/' replied Gervase, abruptly. And he moved 
away, compressing his lips with annoyance, and calling Paul's 
attention to a quaintly rigged vessel passing by. 

Paul at once fell in with his humor and changed the sub- 
ject. He saw that Edward's suit was as distasteful to Gervase 
as to himself, though for different reasons. Gervase evidently 
thought that Sibyl had been trifled with, and in spite of what 
had passed between himself and his cousin in their interview 
in his garden at Medington, he began to wonder if the latter 
had indeed preferred Sibyl until he discovered the slenderness 
of her dower. It was improbable, but there is no improba- 
bility at which jealousy will not grasp. 

Just then, as they were strolling back to the' house, they 
fell in with Edward, who was going in the same direction with 
his sister. Paul looked on his cousin's handsome face, and 
heard his light-hearted laughter at some passing jest., and a 
deadly feeling took possession of him; the bright young face 
drew him with an intense fascination; he saw in its gayety an 
evidence of triumph, an easy triumph which scarcely stirred a 
sense of endeavor; its beauty maddened him, a hot passion 
surged uncontrollably within him, the passion of a bitter 
hatred. 

Just as Alice's mere presence had been wont to thrill him, 
Edward's thrilled him now; he could not be in the same room 
with either of them without an intense consciousness of their 
existence, without marking the slightest movement or most 
casual word of each, following every syllable and gesture of 
the one with passionate love, and of the other with an equally 
passionate hate. 

All through the meal they took before setting out for the 
Jura, he watched them both with burning glances, equally at- 
tracted by both, his imagination lending intense meaning to 
the few casual remarks they exchanged in the course of the 
meal, and supplying words to the silences which fell upon the 
uncon^ious objects of his thoughts, neither of whom were in 
tune with the cheerful holiday air assumed or felt by the rest 
of the party. 

Once xilice looked up and arrested one of Paul's fiery looks. 
A shade of vexation crossed her face, and she bit her lips as 


128 THE REPROACH OP ANKESLeY. 

she turned her head and addressed some remark to Mrs. An- 
nesley. 

In the railway carriage there was a general tendency lo con- 
sult books and newspapers, and Mrs. Annesley composed her- 
self in an attitude of dignified repose. By some chance or 
mischance, Paul found himself in the inner corner of the car- 
riage with Eleanor, while Edward was at the other end by the 
open door, sitting next to Alice, and immediately opposite 
Mrs. Annesley. From behind his unread newspaper the jeal- 
ous man continued to watch the objects of his dilferent pas- 
sions, brooding upon the pain which tore him inwardly until 
it reached a terrible pitch. 

He recalled the day of Edward^s arrival at Medington, and 
wished that day had never dawned. He remembered his own 
expansion of heart and the unusual confidences he had made 
to his cousin concerning his domestic misery, his poverty and 
his purposed marriage. How chauged his life was since that 
day, what strange and unexpected good fortune had befallen 
him! and yet what would he not have given to be once more 
as he was then, the struggling, unsuccessful parish doctor, 
harassed with domestic troubles and money cares, but possess- 
ing the one golden hope of one day winning Alice! On that 
day he had heard of the first in the chain of deaths by which 
he had become a man of wealth and standing. 

Death, he mused, is a thing upon which no one can reckon; 
framers of statistics may draw up imposing columns of figures, 
they may tell you to a nicety the percentage of deaths at this 
age and that, in this condition and that, from this cause and 
that; and yet when you leave the abstract of masses and come 
to the concrete of individual cases, all these calculations fail; 
Death is restored to his proper shape, as the most capricious 
as well as most terrible of tyrants, striking at random, miss- 
ing where his shaft is apparently aimed, and sending his dart 
home in unexpected quarters. Had it been otherwise, had it 
been he instead of Reginald Annesley who was struck down in 
the fiower of youth, it had been far better, he would have had 
rest from this bitter torment. Or why not Edward? Ed- 
ward who, as a soldier, was equally liable with Reginald to be 
sent to savage places, and indulge in savage sports. His heart 
leaped at the thought of Edward’s death; he was certain that 
but for his appearance at Arden he would have won Alice. He 
began thinking of the possibilities which still existed. They 
had been talking at luncheon of some recent difficult 'mount- 
ain ascents. Edward had waxed enthusiastic, and spoken 
about guides and ropes, and calculated what time he should 


THE REPEOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


129 


have after the Jura excursion for attempting some of the yet 
unsealed summits; and Mrs. Annesley had 'talked in Cassandra 
strain of the fatalities which marked the conquest of peak 
after peak, trying to cool his ardor. If he would but carry 
out his intention, a slight momentary giddiness, a flaw in a 
rope, an instant^s failure of nerve, the loosening of a stone, 
one false step on the part of one of the travelers, not to men- 
tion the thousand chances and changes of weather, or the many 
possibilities of losing the way or mistaking the ever-changing 
landmarks — what a difference this might make! 

Unconscious of these terrible thoughts, Edward sat silent by 
Alice, reading his English paper, and taking a melancholy 
pleasure in being at least near her, while she perused her book 
with an under-current memory of the romantic moments 
passed on the balcony the night before. 

Presently the newspaper was laid aside; Edward folded his 
arms and gazed downward in silent thought. Gervase was 
writing with a rapid pencil. Sibyl looked up from the Tasso 
she carried about with her, and said something to Eleanor, 
who was deep in a novel. Eleanor laughed, and pointed warn- 
ingly to her aunt, whose slumbers were now deep. Alice 
looked up and smiled at the two girls; Paul continued to gaze 
as if fascinated at Edward, who had not stirred, and to wonder 
what his thoughts were. 

Edwards's downward glance rested on the folds of Aliceas 
dress, which swept his feet. He was thinking, as Paul sur- 
mised, of her, picturing her at Gledes worth, the head of a 
great household, moving through the long suites of , stately 
rooms with a gentle grace, courted by the local notables, hon- 
ored by those beneath her, cheering and blessing the sorrowful 
and the poor; charming all. He saw her at the head of PauPs 
table, Paul sitting opposite, matching her winning grace with 
his courtly ease; he saw them surromided with guests great 
and small; he saw them alone with intimate friends — himself, 
he hoped, among them — by the winter hearth, or beneath the 
great elms and mighty oaks of their lovely demesne in the 
summer sunlight. She was made for a life so full of leisure 
and dignit}^, he wondered that he could ever have dreamed of 
asking her . to share his lowlier lot — how well she would fill 
every place her wealth and station would assign her, whether 
charming great people in brilliant assemblies, or dispensing 
kindness in poor cottages! — everywhere she must be loved and 
honored, especially by him, and would she perhaps have a kind 
place in her heart for PauPs cousin and friend? Would the 
shadow of his aunt^s fieiy nature fall across her home? Would 


130 


THE REPKOACH OF ANNESLEY. 


her children — he saw them clinging about her, large-eyed, 
round-faced — would Ihey inherit the only authentic family 
curse? Or would the wholesome sweetness of her nature pre- 
vail over the fiercer strain? He stirred uneasily; something 
slipped from Alice's pocket to the ground as she took out her 
handkerchief. He picked up her purse, and restored it with 
a laughing comment on her carelessness, and Paul thought 
they lingered over the exchange so that their hands might 
touch; but it was not so— the purse was given and taken too 
daintily for that. 

“ Why did we not bring some fruit?" sighed Sibyl, petu- 
lantly. “ I am so thirsty this hot afternoon!" 

“ I will get you some at the next halt," Edward replied, 
and, despite a warning from Gervase that there was no time, 
he sprung out the moment the train stopped, and made for 
the buffet, leaving his friends to speculate on the extreme im- 
probability of his return before they moved on. 

The blue-bloused porters leisurely removed a trunk or two; 
the guards shut the doors with a nonchalant air, and made ob- 
servations with the aid of his fingers and shoulders to a friend; 
the time went on; the engine panted impatiently. It suddenly 
occurred to the guard that it was getting late; he exchanged 
one last remark with his friend, laughing, gave the signal to 
start with a preoccupied air, and the train steamed slowly out 
of the little station, followed by a parting jest from the chef 
de gave, who lounged, wide-trousered and majestic, across the 
platform; and then only did Edward return from his foraging 
expedition, and dash madly after the moving train with the 
intention of boarding. 

“Hi! lioldV’ cried the indignant chef de gave, roused to a 
slight interest in railway matters by this glaring infraction of 
rules. But Edward dashed over the rails, upsetting a blue- 
bloused porter, who feebly attempted to detain him, and, gain- 
ing the foot-board, made for his own carriage, followed by 
official execrations on the English and all their mad ways. In 
the meantime the speed had increased, they were approaching 
a tunnel, the door stuck, and, on opening with a burst at last, 
detached Edward from his foothold, so that he fell, clutching 
at the rail with one hand and hanging thus for one dreadful 
moment, during which Paul endured a life-time of emotion. 
His terrible wish was being fulfilled before his eyes; he saw 
the man he hated actually hurled off to destruction, and turned 
sick with horror. He was too far off to help him, but he 
moved down toward the. door in the instinctive attempt to save 
him, scarcely knowing what he did, and in the meantime Ger- 


THE REPEOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


131 


vase, reaching over Alice, had caught Edward by the collar, 
and dragged him in before he had time even to know that 
Aliceas hands were attempting the same kind of office with Ger- 
vase^’s. 

“ Thank you, Eickrnan,^’ Edward said, composedly taking 
his seat. ‘‘ I am afraid I stepped on your dress. Miss Lin- 
gard. Nothing but these mulberries to be had, Miss Rick- 
man. ” 

“ The next time you commit suicide, Edward, said Mrs. 
Annesley, severely, have the goodness not to do it in my 
presence. 

Or mine, you tiresome, good-for-nothing fellow!’^ sobbed 
Eleanor. “ 1 wish you had been killed — it would have served 
you right, that it would 

‘ ‘ Sorry to have frightened you, my dear aunt. It was the 
door sticking that upset me. But it was not far to fall,*^ he 
apologized. “ Nell, if you make such an idiot of yourself — 
I'll — I don’t know what I won't do to you." 

“ Give her some mulberries," suggested the practical Ger- 
vase; upon which Eleanor began to dry her eyes, and console 
herself with the dearly purchased fruit; tranquillity was re- 
stored, and the conversation fell upon the merits of mulberries. 

Paul was very thankful when he saw his cousin hauled in 
scathless. In those few moments of peril he had some inkling 
of what it might be to have a fellow-creature's life upon one's 
conscience. Then he looked at Alice, and saw that she was 
very pale, and made no contribution to the conversation. At 
that sight the fierce tide of hate surged back into his heart, 
and he wished that Edward were lying dead in the dark tunnel 
through which they had glided immediately on his rescue. 

Edward, too, observed Alice's pallor, and reproached him- 
self for having given her a shock by his fool-hardiness. The 
thought came to him like balm, that if he had been killed 
there and then she might have shed a kindly tear over him. 
She had a heart full of pity, he knew; he remembered her 
trouble about the consumptive Reuben Gale, and bethought 
him to ask her if they had given his plan of entering the army 
any further consideration. 

“That would never have done," Alice replied. “But I 
am quite happy about Reuben now. Your cousin has pro- 
cured him a situation with Mrs. Reginald Annesley, who is to 
winter in Algeria. Reuben will be with her there. " 

“ Of .course," he thought within himself, “ Paul does every- 
thing for her now. She wants no other friend. But the day 
may come — \Yell, I am a fool! but I will at least enjoy these 


132 THE REPROACH OP ANHESLEY. 

few days with her!^^ And he went on talking about the Gales, 
and heard that Ellen did not like to see the new doctor, and 
that Paul still visited her, and meant to do so till the end. 

It was very pleasant, in spite of the bitter of PauFs success. 
The stations passed too quickly by; the great white peaks were 
left behind, the country became greener and greener, the vine- 
yards had vanished, great solemn pine woods brooded darkly 
upon the hill slopes, the farmsteads and villages had steeper 
roofs and straighter outlines; tillage became scarcer, the cow- 
bells tinkled musically in the distance, the tunnels were fewer, 
and the country more thinly populated; they were in the heart 
of the J ura, and the journey was coming to an end with its 
sweet companionship. Edward would have liked to travel on 
thus by Aliceas side, silent himself, but within sound of her 
voice, between the green mountain - walls, by the rushing 
streams and shadowy pine woods, for ever and ever. Perhaps 
they might never travel thus side by side again. Perhaps it 
would be better so. The enchantment was too strong; it 
ought to be broken. He had his life to live, and its duties to 
fulfill. Some day, no doubt, he would find a wife for himself 
• — and here some vague thought of Sibyl flitted through his 
brain — and all the usual home-ties; but it would not do to go 
on dreaming over what was now another’s right. One day 
more, only one, and then, having heard decidedly from PauFs 
own lips what their relations really were, he would congratu- 
late them and withdraw from the perilous fascination till time 
had hardened him against it. 

Paul, too, was purposing to withdraw aftSr one day more, 
one day in which in despair he would try a last appeal — not to 
Alice this time, but to Edward. All that was manly, and all 
that was in the best sense gentle in him rose up against his 
own behavior in remaining with Alice after what had passed 
in the boat; but something stronger than the instincts of a 
gentleman held him, to his own shame and inward contempt. 

The bitter-sweet journey came to an end at last. The train 
slackened and drew up by a little way-side station above a 
bleak, steep-roofed village. Edward stepped out into the sun- 
shine of the golden evening and handed Alice down. Mrs. 
Annesley drew in her skirts, and waited till the others were 
out and her maid had arrived for orders; and then, the lug- 
gage having been claimed, they wound slowly down through 
the echoing, empty street, to the vast barrack of a hotel, which 
seemed to Edward’s troubled imagination to claim previous 
acquaintance with him, though he could never have seen it 
unless in dreams. 


THE REPKOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


133 . 


CHAPTER V. 

WHAT THE PIHES SUNG. 

The tall pine-trees stood dreaming in the balmy quiet of the 
autumn afternoon; the ruddy gold sunbeams, brooding upon 
the vast green roof, found an entrance here and there, and shot 
through many a tiny aperture in long, tremulous shafts of 
powdery light, which blunted themselves here and there 
against the solid red trunks of the pines, kindling them into 
dull fire with their touch; they shattered themselves into scales 
of paler light elsewhere among the dark boughs, and descend- 
ed softly, their color fined away into a dim gray memory of 
former splendor, upon the thick noiseless carpet of fir-needles, 
where few things grew save occasional straggling brambles 
with more leaves than fruit. 

The low deep murmur which is never wholly hushed in a 
pine wood, even at the stillest seasons, rose fitfully in soft 
swells of plaintive remonstrance or half-chiding caress, and 
died away into a silence broken again by some fuller tone of 
deeper meaning, hinting vaguely of epic grandeur, the unre- 
vealed glory of which moaned itself gradually into a yet more 
mystic stillness, only to wake again and again, and cast an un- 
speakably sooth iug charm upon the solitary rambler among 
those grand and gloomy aisles. 

Yet the afternoon was so calm that no breath appeared to 
wake that exquisite wind-music. The lofty pines stood motion- 
less, the blue-green mass of their meeting tops showing dark 
and still against the pale, tranquil heaven, when the eye 
caught them sideways on the slope, dark and still against the 
green mountain-side on which they lay like a mantle, when 
they were seen from below. A subtle, stimulating fragrance 
floated through those shadowy aisles; the distant melody of 
cow-bells from the breezy pastures came half hushed to lose 
itself in the dim stillness; the pigeons^ half-querulous, half- 
contented murmur, the cracking of a twig, the rustle of some 
shy animal among the leaves occasionally ruffled the surface of 
the august silence which spreads like a deep calm lake through 
such woodland solitudes. 

Alice passed slowly along beneath the vast vibrating roof, 
awed and refreshed by the deep calm, her heart awake to the 
lightest beating of the mighty pulses of Nature, as hearts are 
when strongly touched, wondering what the faint fairy music 
of the pine-tops meant, now swayed as if by the far-oft: passion 


134 THE REPEOACH OF ANHESLEY. 

of some boding sorrow, now stirred by the mystic beauty of 
some unutterable joy. Is there any sympathy between the 
great heart of Nature, whence we all draw our being, and the 
throbbing human lives into which the vague music of its voices 
is poured? Did the pine melody mourn or exult over her, or 
rather give out some strong tones of comfort and healing? 
Many things those aged trees had seen while standing there in 
tempest and sunshine^ — children frolicking beneath them; 
merry parties of holiday-makers passing through in. noonday 
stillness and moonlit calm; lovers doubtless, generations of 
them, strolling there apart from the village folk belew; trage- 
dies, perhaps, dark deeds never divulged to the eye or ear of 
man. Did the echoes and memories of these things start up 
and entangle themselves in the intricate mazes which formed 
the living roof above her? As she strolled on the shadows 
broke and the trunks lessened in the growing light, till the 
last colonnade stood dark against the blue sky. W as that the 
rush of water stealing gently on the ear?. 'There where the 
wood ended, as she knew, the green river ran down from its 
mountain bed, deep and swift between precipitous clilfs of 
rock, the River Doubs, dividing Switzerland from France. 

The rest of the party had gone to spend the day at the Saut 
du Doubs in the mountain height above, passing along through 
the wood and by the cliff- walled river. Alice, still tired from 
her last mountain climb, had remained in the village to bear 
Mrs. Annesley company, and had now left her quiet with her 
desk and books, to meet the others on their homeward way. 

She had set out full early, and therefore loitered , not wishing 
to walk too far. It was the last time, she reflected with pleas- 
ure, that she should meet Paul. He had, on arriving at 
Bourget the night before, announced that he had but one more 
day to spend in Switzerland, because affairs required his re- 
turn home. It pained her that he had shown so little consid- 
eration and good taste as to remain with them after what had 
passed in the boat, when she gave him that distinct and final 
refusal, and he, in his passion, charged her with loving his 
cousin, a charge met by an indignant silence which confirmed 
his suspicions. His conduct in thus taking her by surprise, and 
almost obliging her to go in the boat alone with him, had dis- 
tressed her beyond measure; she could never again feel the old 
warm friendship for him; he had fallen too deeply. She saw 
that his passion overpowered him, and swept on beyond his 
control over everything, bearing him helpless as a cliild on its 
flood. That was his great fault; it neutralized all his virtues, 
and earned her contemptuous j)ity. She was glad that he had 


THE REPEOACH OF AKNESLEY. 


135 


at least come to his senses to the extent of seeing that lie ought 
now to leave her; she was glad that his mother did not know 
what had passed, and she lavished unusual tenderness upon 
her that day, to make up fpr the closer affection she could 
never give her a right to claim, a tenderness which misled 
Mrs. Annesley, who did not think that Paul’s quiet and mat- 
ter-of-fact announcement of his intended return to England 
could result from a disappointment, but conjectured it to mean 
rather success, and to mark a considerate wish to spare Alice 
the public announcement of their engagement. 

Strong in her own perfect self-mastery, Alice, who was 
young and had not learned to bear pitifully with human weak- 
ness, felt little tenderness for Paul’s. Self-control, she mused, 
as she strolled in the majestic peace of the forest stillness, is 
one of the most essential qualities in character; no virtue is of 
any avail without it; the world belongs, as Gervase so fre- 
quently observed and illustrated by his example, to the man 
who knows how to keep still when the house is on fire. 

Gervase had resigned her like a gentleman, in spite of those 
masterful words of his on Arden down, words which still rang 
in the ears of her memory from time to time; why could not 
Paul? He had much, he might surely do without the love of 
one poor girl. Many a woman would be proud to accept 
him; many a woman loved these passion-swayed natures, and 
found a way to control them; he might let her go in peace. 

A pigeon fluttered out above her head; she heard its pinions 
clatter as it darted away into the peaceful sunlight above the 
river; she thought she heard confused voices and a cry, and 
listened intently. Was it the gypsy party returning, or was it 
the wail of a plover? She could distinguish nothing but the 
tinkle of a cow-bell fitfully wandering, and far oft* the faint 
echo of a peasant’s song. 

How beautiful the world is, and what a divine peace there is 
in Nature! she mused, feeling, young though she was, a little 
weary with the passions of men, and longing with the uni- 
versal longing of the human heart for something afar from 
the sphere of our sorrow,” yet always hoping to find it there 
in that very sphere. A mighty peace fell from the calm 
heaven through the dim murmuring aisles into her heart, and 
refreshed it, like the manna which descended unseen in the 
midnight silence of old, and refreshed the hungering wander- 
ers in the desert. She was in one of those rare and exalted 
moods in which our mortality falls from us like a cast-off robe; 
when the present suffices, the past no longer burdens us and 
the future casts no shadows upon us, but the soul breathes 


136 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


freely ni the quiet. No troublous influence touched her, 
nothing jarred the sweet calm; she did not dream that the 
balmy air of that still place was yet vibrating with the strong 
conflict of a soul in agony, overijiastered by a jealousy and 
hatred of which she was the innocent cause. Nature stands 
so serenely aloof from the passions of men, that nothing 
human can sully her proud purity; she neither smiles nor 
weeps, nor does she quiver in hot anger, responsive to the joy, 
the sorrow, or the wrath of the frail creatures who fret out 
their little hour beneath her broad glance. Else some shadow 
would have fallen upon her clear spirit from the scene enacted 
shortly before, almost within sight of those solemn pines. 

The excursion to the source of the river had not been a 
great success; the three men were more or less preoccupied, 
Sibyl was unusually grave, and devoted herself chiefly to be- 
guiling Paul of his melancholy, while Gervase tried with some 
success to throw her and Edward together; only Eleanor ap- 
peared quite at ease. 

When they had emptied the provision baskets at the pict- 
uresque cascade which foams down the live rock, the cradle of 
the frontier river, Paul left the group to go and buy fruit at a 
chalet hard by, and Edward followed him. 

Paul was glad when he saw him coming; he had been wish- 
ing all the morning for the explanation he had at first avoided; 
he faced about at sight of him, but could not meet him pleas- 
antly. 

“ Well!^^ he said, abruptly, the memory of all the uninten- 
tional wrong Edward had ever done him rushing over him as 
he spoke; the school-boy rivalries, the precedence Edward had 
always taken of him in the liking of strangers, his invariable 
better fortune till the last few months, and above all his sud- 
den intrusion in the Arden dove-cot, and his immediate suc- 
cess where he himself had sued vainly for years. Even his 
cousin^s sweeter, calmer temper and his manly self-control 
were a cause. of dislike; the very forbearance that Edward had 
shown in leaving the field clear to him for three months im- 
bittered his heart against him; he could not help hating him 
for being the better man, and so justifying Aliceas preference. 
He had brooded so long over his jealous dislike that all the 
finer elements of his nature were suppressed, the affection nat- 
ural to him was quenched, the old habit of brotherhood 
broken; what formerly strengthened his friendship now fed 
his dislike. He was the true descendant of that man who had 
lain awake at night for six mortal weeks, putting a keen edge 


THE KEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 137 

to the cutting phrases of one wounding letter. “Well!"' he 
said, with a slight defiant movement of the head. 

“ Am I to congratulate you?" asked Edward. 

“ No. And you know it," he replied with biting emphasis. 
“ But for your sudden appearance here I should have won her 
in time." 

Light leaped into Edward's eyes; his color deepened; it 
seemed to the imbittered fancy of the other that he wore a look 
of subdued but insolent triumph. “ My coming can have 
made no dilference. If you did not win her in four months 
you would not in five," he replied. 

“ Look here, Paul," Edward added., after some moments of 
uncomfortable silence, “ you may not believe it, but I am 
awfully sorry." 

“ It is possible that I may not believe it, my good fellow," 
Paul said with bitter sarcasm. “ Allow me to congratulate 
you” he added. 

“ I quite thought you were engaged; everybody here be- 
lieves it, and upon my honor — I was — not exactly glad — but 
pleased that you were the winner, since I had to be out of the 
running." 

“ I admire your magnanimity, my dear cousin," thought 
Paul; “ nothing would give me greater pleasure than to help 
you out of a world for which you are too virtuous. " 

He did not say precisely this, but when he spoke, the sound 
of his voice carried him beyond himself, and the pent-up tor- 
rent of jealousy and rage burst madly forth. Edward was so 
surprised by this exhibition, which was a revelation to him, 
that he listened in silent disgust, distinguishing and remem- 
bering nothing clearly beyond some wild hint of killing who- 
ever should marry Alice, at which he smiled forbearingly; the 
most irritating thing he could do. 

After some vain attempts, as well-meaning as they were 
fruitless, to bring Paul to a more rational condition, Edward 
gave up. 

“ I only irritate him in this mood, whatever I can say," he 
reflected, turning to leave him, stung into a contemptuous dis- 
like for Paul, which was clearly expressed in his face. 

“ Stop!" cried Paul, with a sudden change of manner; but 
Edward refused to stop. He saw that Paul was too sore to be 
reasonable, and knew that nothing but a quarrel could result 
from further parleying; silently swallowing his wrath, he there- 
fore retraced his steps and went back to the water-fall, near 
which the others were grouped, listening to the music of the 


138 


THE REPROACH OE ANHESLET. 


rushing water, as it leaped foaming down the rocks in a double 
fall. 

Paul strode some paces after him and then stopped, execrat- 
ing the lack of self-control which had led him to use wild and 
foolish words and make himself generally ridiculous. The 
fact that his fury had betrayed him into the threat of killing 
his successful rival put a keener edge on his hate. No one is 
so detestable as the man who has seen us in an undignified 
position. And Paul Annesley was as proud a man as ever 
breathed; it was wounded pride which most fiercely barbed 
the arrow of his rejected love. Therefore the fury of his hate 
and love and jealousy grew in that solitary place till it bid fair 
to stifle him, and it was some time before he could sufficiently 
compose himself outwardly to go back to the halting-place. 

Soon after he had joined them, the walking-party began to 
move away from the spring, when Eleanor, who had twisted 
her ankle before they sat down to their meal, found that she 
could not stand on the injured foot, and it was decided that 
she must be carried down to the village, which was some miles 
distant. Her brother, therefore, set off at once in search of 
some means of conveying her back to the village, and he had 
not long started before Paul followed him, saying nothing of 
his reason for leaving the rest of the party. 

Sibyl and Gervase never forgot the impression his departing 
figure made upon them, as he disappeared gradually down the 
steep path, till his face was finally lost to view. *He walked 
with bent head and moody face like one impelled by some in- 
ward force, wholly absorbed in troubled thought and dead to 
all external things. 

“ Paul is so desperately glum to-day that it is a real relief 
to get rid of him for a time/^ Sibyl observed. “ Or is that 
the professional air, the gravity of the leech, Gervase, do you 
suppose 

“ If Paul is glum, Edward is grimness incarnate/^ added 
Eleanor, pettishly; “ they do nothing but scowl at each other. 
It is no pleasure to be with such a pair. Have they quar- 
reled?^^ 

Gervase recommended Sibyl not to talk, but take a book 
and let Eleanor, who was lying in the shade upon a shawl, get 
a chance of going to sleep, and himself smoked thoughtfully 
and silently for some twenty minutes. Then he told Sibyl 
that he would walk back to the village and see if he could help 
Edward in his search for some means of carrying his sister. 
“ If all fails, we three can carry Nellie comfortably in an arm- 


THE KEPEOACH OE ANKESLEY. 


139 


chair/^ he said. “ I supjjose Paul will be back in a minute; 
if not, the clnilet is close at hand, Sibyl, remember. 

Alice in the meantime had ascended as far as she cared to 
go, and was waiting beneath a cluster of firs, where she found 
a seat upon some fagots by a tree. She sat wrapped in a 
dreamy peace, with a book unread on her knee, listening to 
the faint under-tones which murmured beneath the afternoon 
stillness — the hum of a bee, the fitful music in the pines, the 
cracking of a dead branch — until the warmth, stillness, and 
solitude imperceptibly soothed away her senses and weighed 
her eyelids down over her charmed eyes, and thoughts and 
images blended fantastically in her brain on the dim borders 
of dream-land. Then a voice stole upon her dream, the 
familiar voice of Gervase, saying she knew not what, but using 
incisive and resolute tones; another replied more earnestly 
still, a voice that stirred the deepest currents of her being, and 
she awoke, slowly opening her sleep-hazed eyes until the tree- 
trunks in front of her shaped themselves clearly upon her 
vision, and the blank spaces between them were filled and then 
vacated by the two passing figures. 

“ Yes,’’ said the voice of Gervase, before the figures came 
into view, ‘‘ I will keep that part of the business dark, I prom- 
ise you that faithfully; one is not bound to reveal the whole. 
It would only cause needless suffering. ” 

“ Especially to her/’ returned Edward’s voice; they will 
naturally suppose I was not present — oh! above all she must 
never know.” 

“ No; Alice must never know. You may rely upon me — ” 
He stopped short, dismayed, for by this time they had come 
full into Alice’s field of vision, passing outside the fir-trees. 
She was facing the opposite direction to that whence they 
came, and was screened from their view by the tree-trunk be- 
hind her until they had almost passed her, when Gervase’s 
ever-watchful eyes caught the gleam of her light dress upon 
the needle-strewn ground. 

“ Why, Alice,” he added, quickly recovering his self-pos- 
session; “ are you alone?” 

‘‘ Yes; I have been waiting,” she replied. ‘‘ Where are the 
others? What is the matter? * Oh! Mr. Annesley, are you 
ill?” 

Edward’s face was of an ashen hue, his lips quivered, his 
eyes shone with unnatural light; he looked at Alice with a sort 
of borrow, as if she had been a specter. Then he and Gervase 
regarded each other inquiringly for some moments, saying 
nothing. 


140 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


This silence, so full of meaning, prepared Alice for evil tid- 
ings, although she was conscious of no thought while it lasted 
beyond a weak childish wonder that Edward should be wear- 
ing PauEs hat, a triviality that she communicated to no one at 
the time, though it recurred to her afterward. She knew the 
hat by a piece of edelweiss in the band, which alone distin- 
guished it from that worn in the morning by the other cousin. 

“ There is much the matter, Alice, replied Gervase at last, 
in grave, measured tones. “ There has been an accident. 

Alice began to tremble; she had risen from her seat upon 
their approach, and now stayed herself against the trunk of a 
tree. 

Be calm, dear,^^ said Gervase, laying his hand with sooth- 
ing and magnetic effect upon her arm; you must try to con- 
trol yourself for the sake of his mother. 

‘‘ It is Paul,^^ Alice replied, faintly; “ is he much hurt?'^ 

“He is dead — dead!^^ cried Edward, with an agitation he 
could not control. 

“Oh, no!^'’ exclaimed Alice, “not dead, it is not true. 
Paul can not be dead; it is not true.^^ 

A deep, hard sob escaped from Edward. 

“ It is too true,^^ continued Gervase, in quiet, even tones 
which calmed her; “he slipped on the cliff ^s edge, poor fel- 
low, up beyond there where the path is narrow. He fell into 
the river, and his body was quickly swept away by the cur- 
rent."^ 

His body! Alice turned sick and tried to grasp the fact 
that the man she had seen that morning all aglow with pas- 
sion and life in the fullness of his youth, was lying quiet in the 
rushipg waters below, hushed and silent forever; all the storm 
and stress of his blighted hopes and vain love swallowed up 
and stilled in the green waters flowing so tranquilly by in the 
sweet sunshine. 

“ Oh, Paul, Paul!^^ she sobbed in sudden remorseful agony. 
“Oh! if I had but known!” 

“ Hush!” said Gervase, in the tones that had such mag- 
netic power over her. “It is no use to give way. Some one 
must break it to Mrs. Annesley. ” 

Alice scarcely distinguished the sense of his words, though 
his voice calmed her. That strange avenger. Death, had so 
stirred the depths of pity and regret within her into the sem- 
blance of the remorse which he never fails to call. up for the 
torture of the survivors, that she could only yearn vainly for 
the lost opportunity of saying one kind word to the man who 
had loved her so strongly and truly, though so wildly and 


THE REPROACH OF ANXESLEY. 


141 


selfishly, and remember that her last words to him had been 
words of reproach. The friendship of years awoke within her, 
and called up a thousand gentle, happy memories of the 
friend whose life she had unwittingly marred, it obliterated all 
the harsher features of his character and accused her of need- 
less severity to the dead. Why had she refused him? She 
might have grown to him and loved him, if she had tried, she 
thought in the first overpowering rush of pity and sorrow. 

“ / will tell Mrs. Annesley,^'’ she said at last, choking back 
the passion which surged up within her. “ And you, Mr. 
Annesley,'’’ she added, turning to Edward, who had been look- 
ing on m speechless anguish, apparently unobserved by her, 
“ you are her nearest kinsman — you will take her son^s jfiace 
— will you not come with me?^^ 

“Heaven forbid!’^ cried Edward; “lam the last person 
she will wish to see.'’^ 

Gervase perceived that each took the other^s words in a 
sense different from that intended by the speaker, and smiled 
a subtle smile as he replied, “ Annesley is right. I will tell 
her all myself later. Go and break what you know gently to 
her, Alice. I, in the meantime, must communicate with the 
authorities. You, Annesley, must return to your sister and 
Sibyl, who are left alone all this time. You and Stratfield 
— PauTs servant — “ might contrive a litter for her between 
you, in default of anything better.'’^ 

His clear, incisive words told on his listeners as they never 
failed to do, bringing them to themselves and giving them the 
distinct motives their agitation prevented them from seizing 
by themselves, and straightway they carried out his sugges- 
tions as best they could. 

Alice passed an hour with the bereaved mother, on whom 
the shock produced a stupefying effect which merged in an 
utter prostration. She was roused from this seeming stupor 
some hours later by the announcement that Gervase Rickman 
was ready to give her what details he could of her song’s death. 
After a long interview with him she was asked if she would 
like to see her nephew, and replied in the affirmative. 

Edward, therefore, entered her presence, calm and com- 
posed outwardly, but quivering with inward emotion. He 
tried to speak, but his lips refused utterance when he looked 
upon the suddenly aged and worn face before him. Mrs. An- 
nesley was dry-eyed and apparently calm; she rose from her 
seat upon his entrance, and gazed steadily and sternly with 
glittering eyes upon him; then she spoke in the deep and 
tragic tone she could command upon occaision,: 


142 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


‘‘ Where is my son, Edward Annesley?^^ she asked; “ what 
have you done with my only son?^^ 


CHAPTEE VI. 

THE INHERITANCE. 

The memory of that scene weighed like a lasting nightmare 
upon Edward Annesley^s troubled heart. When h^ entered 
his aunt^s presence he expected something painful, but noth- 
ing terrible; he thought to see a bereaved mother, he found a 
tigress robbed of her cubs. All the fierceness in her nature 
blazed up at the sight of him, a grim joy possessed her at the 
opportunity of denouncing him as the cause of her loss; for 
where other women grieved, this one raged. 

He could only stand silent before the storm, doing mute 
homage to her age, her sex, and her bitter sorrow; j^ained by 
the sight of a passion so like that he had witnessed a few hours 
since in one whose passions were now forever stilled, and hop- 
ing that her frenzy would exhaust itself, that she might at 
least accept some kind words from him, if nothing more. 

That which silently knawed his heart was bad enough with- 
out spoken reproach; her words burned into him like molten 
metal, and left life-long wounds. In everything, she said, he 
had supplanted her son; he had secretly stolen the heart of 
Alice from Paul while openly trifling with Sibyl, whose life he 
had marred. And now he had driven Paul to his death that 
he might snatch his inheritance. Let him take that inherit- 
ance with the curse attached to it, and a yet more withering 
curse on to that, the curse of a childless widow. She asked 
him how a strong and active man like her son could, if alone, 
slip and fall beyond recovery. She told him that the reproach 
of having survived him would cling to him and blight his hap- 
piness for life. 

All this she said in the fewest, most cutting words, without 
agitation, with a deep, full voice, standing erect and immov- 
able, with a hard brilliance in her cold blue eyes, and when 
she had finished, she bid him go and come near her no more. 

He hesitated, looking silently at her stern, tearless face, in 
which he saw such bitter anger that he thought the shock 
must have made her beside herself. He hoped that what she 
said was half unconscious, and would be forgotten when she 
came to herself. Nevertheless, the barbed words struck 
home, and her cold, immovable calm impressed him with a 
horror he could not shake off, and seeing that his presence 
only irritated her, he withdrew with some expressions of regret 


THE REPROACH OF ANKESLEY. 143 

for her condition, and a hope that he should find her calmer 
on the morrow. 

Mrs. Annesley laughed a hard laugh, and said quietly that 
she never had been and never should be calmer than at that 
moment, which was perfectly true. But when the door had 
closed upon him, and her gaze fell upon some trifle that Paul 
had given her, the caM deserted her, a sense of her bitter 
bereaval took hold of her, the memory of a thousand stormy 
scenes in which she had wounded her only son rose up accus- 
ingly before her, and she sobbed and moaned, and felt herself 
to be the most miserable woman upon earth. 

Edward left her, feeling as if he had just been cast naked 
into a pit of scorpions, scarce knowing what he did or 
whither he went. He and she alone knew how the scar came 
upon Paulas face; she had looked when that occurred as she 
looked now. He wondered if he could be the same man who 
had left the gypsy party at the river^s source a few hours be- 
fore and had stepped lightly along the rocky path in the sun- 
shine, singing in the lightness of his heart. 

He met Sibyl in the corridor, and she, seeing the misery in 
his face, gave way to one of those guileless impulses she never 
could resist, and laid her hand gently on his arm. 

“ Dear Mr. Annesley,^^ she said, in her clear light voice, ‘‘ I 
am so sorry for you. All this must be so painful. 

He said nothing, but kissed the hand she had given him, 
and passed on with a full heart. Sibyl alone condoled with 
him on that day^s work, he reflected, and then the barbed 
arrow of his aunt’s suggestion about her rankled in his heart. 

He went into the sitting-room, where his sister lay on a 
couch with Alice sitting by her side. 

By this time it was dark night, the lonely village was asleep, 
only the hotel lights still burned, and even they were gradu- 
ally dying out; but the Annesley party did not yet dream of 
going to rest, they were waiting and watching for the return 
of the searchers with their tragic burden. 

Alice sat in the shadow; she had only seen Edward once 
since the meeting under the pine-trees, and she had then ob- 
served, in the brief glance she caught of him, that the edel- 
weiss was removed from his hat. 

The sight of her stirred Edward with a feeling akin to pain 
— a mysterious something bid him fly from her; for the pity 
and terror of Paul’s untimely fate had reared a barrier be- 
tween them, insurmountable for the time. It seemed an un- 
fair advantage over the dead man, even to recall his assurance 
that there was no chance of his winning her, or to consider the 


144 


THE EEPEOAOH OE AHHESLEY. 


meaning of the passion in Aliceas voice, when she cried upon 
Paul in her sudden remorse in the wood: Oh, Paul, Paul! 
If I had but known!’" 

She was very calm now, though he could not see her face in 
the shadow; but calmness, he knew well, was no index to the 
depth of her sorrow; it was her nature in joy and grief to 
command herself. Yet he thought* she wished to avoid him. 

“ Have you been to auntie, Ned?” asked Eleanor, starting 
up at his step. 

Yes,” he answered, heavily, and he sat down and gazed 
blankly before him. 

“ Nellie,” said Alice, ‘‘ do you think you could go to your 
aunt?” 

“ She had better not,” replied Edward, quickly; “ it would 
be too painful for her.” 

“ But Mrs. Annesley must not be left alone,” said Alice, 
with some reproach in her voice. ‘‘ I am afraid your inter- 
view has been trying, Mr. Annesley — but how could it be 
otherwise? Is she no calmer?” 

I believe,” returned Edward, slowly, “ that she is out of 
her mind. ” 

“Poor soul! Then I will go to her at once,” said Alice, 
rising. 

“ She is better alone, Miss Lingard,” interposed Edward, 
hastily; “ pray don’t subject yourself to anything so dreadful. 
She is not accountable for what she says now — no one must 
believe what she says — her grief must have its way. Her 
maid is at hand. Pray, Miss Lingard.” He even barred the 
way when she would have left the room, and held the door 
shut behind him, until a pressure from without caused him to 
open it and disclose the face of Gervase, who had seen his 
meeting with Sibyl a few moments before. 

“ Alice is right,” Gervase said, on hearing the cause of dis- 
pute; “ Mrs. Annesley is not fit to be left alone; it would be 
cruel. Nellie is too young, and just now too unwell, and 
Sibyl — well, Sibyl could not be what Alice is to her.” 

Alice therefore went, with every word that Edward had just 
uttered so hastily and brokenly sinking permanently into her 
memory. Mrs. Annesley roused herself at the sight of her to 
repeat her denunciation of Edward, in tones of sorrowful con- 
viction this time. 

Alice, inwardly trembling, did what she could to soothe the 
now terribly agitated woman, and bid her consider before ac- 
cusing Edward in the hearing of others, thankful that, as she 
supposed, she alone had as yet heard anything. 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


145 


Dear Mrs. Annesley/^ she remonstrated, yon imply that 
he had a hand in your son's death when you speak so." 

“Alice," replied Mrs. Annesley, quietly and coldly, “do 
you know where Edward was at the moment of Paul's fall?" 

“ No," she replied, simply; “ how should I?" 

“ How indeed?" repeated Mrs. Annesley, setting her lips 
hard; “ that is what no one knows or ever will know. " 

“ It is very simple, dear," said Alice; “ we will ask him." 

“ Ask him!" returned Mrs. Annesley, with terrible scorn — • 
“ ask him yourself, Alice." 

Then her mood changed, and she suddenly fell to weeping, 
staying herself upon Alice. 

“ Oh, Alice! Alice!" she cried, “ my poor child loved you 
— he loved you!'^ and their tears mingled, and the bitterness 
seemed to pass away. 

Paul's body was never found. They waited and watched in 
vain that night. Alice thought that if she could look once 
more upon his dead face, and press one repentant kiss upon 
the cold brow that could never more thrill with passion, even 
at the touch of her lips, she would be happier and perhaps lose 
the unreasoning remorse which troubled her now. 

The current was strong at the spot where he fell; the burst- 
ing of an Alpine thunder-storm about an hour after the acci- 
dent increased the difficulty of the search which was quickly 
instituted. There were good reasons why the body, if discov- 
ered by chance, should be concealed again. Paul wore a 
valuable watch, and had a good deal more money than prudent 
people care to carry about in his pocket, and, as it was ascer- 
tained that he had not given the diamonds into the jeweler's 
charge before leaving Neufchdtel, and they were not found 
among his effects, it was inferred that they, too, were upon 
him. 

Edward passed some weary weeks in Switzerland, a time of 
fruitless search for the missing body, and of apparently endless 
formalities with regard to the death, a time which he spent 
entirely apart from his aunt, who refused to see him and only 
communicated with him through Gervase and her other law- 
yers. Then he returned to England, the gainer of a great in- 
heritance that he did not want, burdened with responsibilities 
and rich with opportunities that he had never coveted and 
would gladly have renounced in exchange for the sunny peace 
of mind he enjoyed when traveling on the rail through the 
mountains only a few weeks earlier. 

Mrs. Annesley stayed on some little time after his departure 
before she went home, a white-haired, broken-hearted woman. 


146 THE EEPROACH OP AHHESLElt. 

Alice Lingard, the only creature to whom she now showed any 
affection, remained with her, surrounding her with tender 
cares, and trying to soften the bitter blow which had fallen 
upon her. Sibyl and Eleanor had returned to their respective 
homes immediately after the accident; the two women were 
thus alone with their loss, and the elder entreated the younger 
to make her home with her, and remain with her altogether 
to cheer her desolation. 

But Alice, without refusing absolutely to entertain this pro- 
‘posal, said that it was too early yet to form any definite plans; 
they would wait and consider, and decide nothing till the heal- 
ing hand of Time had wrought some comfort in Mrs. Annes- 
ley’s stricken heart. 


CHAPTER VII. 

BYTHERIVER. 

A SHORT time before they left the village in the Jura, Alice 
one day gathered some late autumn flowers and bound them 
together, and Gervase Rickman, who had remained with Mrs. 
Annesley, journeying backward and forward on business con- 
nected with PauPs death, asked her for what purpose she had 
gathered them. 

“ I am going for a long walk,’' she replied, evasively, and 
she did not ask him to accompany her; but he saw her go in 
the direction of the path which wound along the river’s rocky 
bank toward its source, and presently he went the same way 
with a .view to meeting her, as if by accident. 

“ That old woman will be the death of her if this goes on 
much longer,” he said to himself, glad that he had urged his 
father and mother to call her back to Arden. 

It was now October; the hush of the solemn autumn lay 
upon the mountain pastures and the fading, dreaming woods, 
and although, lower down in the warm valleys and sheltered 
folds of the mountains, some grapes still remained glowing in 
the hot sunshine in the vineyards, and the country was alive 
with the songs and shouts of the vintagers, and full of the 
mellow, intoxicating odor of crushed grapes, up there on the 
green Jura slopes the frosts had been keen and the winds 
chill. But on this afternoon all was peace; the sun shone 
warmly with a last, relenting glow before the unchaining of 
the winter tempests, and Alice- was glad to lose herself in the 
beauty of the quiet season. 

She made her way through the wood in which she had rested 
shortly before she had heard the heavy tidings of Paul’s death 


THE REPEOACH OF AHNESLEY. 


147 


a month since, and, though the way was long, did not pause 
until she reached the spot upon the cliffy s edge where he 
slipped and fell on that unfortunate day. There she rested, 
looking down into the green waters, now turbid from the 
heavy equinoctial rains, and thought it all over. Then she 
took the flowers, and threw them carefully down the cliff, so 
that they might clear the trees and bushes which grew here 
and there in the unevennesses and clefts in the rocky wall, and 
fall into the river, where she watched them swerve with the 
current and float down the stream, till a jutting buttress of 
rock hid them from her gaze. Just so PauFs lifeless body 
must have been borne away. It seemed as if her heart went 
with the flowers and sunk in the waters forever with the body 
of her ill-starred lover. 

Her face was worn with care, there were dark hollows be- 
neath her eyes; the shadow of Mrs. Annesley^s grief lay heavily 
upon her youth; it was crushing all the brightness out of her, 
and besides that, she carried the heavy burden of an unspoken 
fear within her, and waged a daily, wasting warfare with a 
suspicion that grew stronger from the combat. She had 
ceased openly to rebut Mrs. Annesley^s accusations of her 
nephew, but nevertheless the continual allusions made by the 
latter told upon her. She learned now of the long rivalry be- 
tween the cousins, dangerous half truths; she heard of a quar- 
rel at Medington, though not of the agreement in which it 
terminated. 

Paul had himself betrayed his jealousy of Edward in that 
unfortunate boat scene; the distant and almost hostile terms 
on which the cousins were, had been evident to the whole 
party. Alice knew something of Paul’s temper; she knew 
weirwhat maddening things he could say when his blood was 
stirred to white heat; she could well imagine that Edward’s 
temper, though sweet enough, would give way before Paul’s 
cutting sarcasms, and betray him into what was foreign to his 
nature at calmer times. But why had he chosen the tortuous 
course of concealment, which the words she overheard him 
say by the river implied? 

She could not forgive him that; a man capable of that was 
not to be trusted, nor was one stained with so dark a thing as 
homicide worth the thought she was wasting on him. The re- 
proach was already beginning to work upon Annesley. 

When Alice had been sitting thus, brooding on these dis- 
quieting thoughts a good twenty minutes, during which some 
of the autumn peace had stolen into her heart, her mournful 
reverie was broken by the appearance of Gervase Bickman. 


148 


THE REPIIOACH OF AHNESLEY. 


This is not a good place for you/^ he said, with gentle re- 
buke; ‘‘ I am glad you will soon be far away/^ 

“It is a farewell visit/^ she replied, looking up, her eyes 
bright with rising tears. “ Come and sit on this rock, and 
tell me exactly what you saw on that day. When I have seen 
it all in imagination clearly before me, 1 shall brood less upon 
it, perhaps. 

He sat down at her bidding, and looked wistfully at her, 
wishing she would ask him anything else, meaning to ask her 
to spare him the pain of the narration, reflecting that she 
would think such shrinking on his part unmanly, longing 
vainly to be saved from a temptation he knew to be beyond 
his strength. 

“ Tell me all,^^ she repeated, seeing that he hesitated; “ it 
will do me good. 

So he took up his tale, and said that he had followed the 
two cousins from the river’s source on the day of Paul’s death, 
partly to see what had become of Paul, who had left them for 
no apparent purpose, partly to help Edward to find some 
means of carrying Nellie down to Bourget; that, as he ap- 
proached the spot in which they were now sitting, where the 
ground was broken, and sloped suddenly down to the cliff’s 
edge, he heard a cry, and running up, saw Paul clinging to 
the birch-tree beneath them, the snapped trunk of which 
showed that it had given way beneath his weight. He saw the 
tree bound and rebound, before it finally snapped, and Paul 
fell into the water, and was seen no more. It was his opinion 
at the time that Paul, who could not swim, had been killed or 
disabled by striking on the rocky bed of the stream. He 
called and ran for help, which he found in the shape of some 
men at work higher up. Edward Annesley then appeared 
upon the scene. That was the whole story. 

“ Why did Mr. Annesley not appear sooner, when Paul 
cried for help?” asked Alice, quietly. 

“ That I am unable to explain,” Gervase returned, dryly; 
“ perhaps he did not hear.” 

“ Then why did he come at all?” 

“ Perhaps he heard, but was too far off to arrive sooner.” 

“ Gervase,” said Alice, turning and looking him full in the 
face; “ you are not telling the whole truth.” 

He was obliged to meet her eyes for a moment; but imme- 
diately averted his gaze and breathed quickly, not knowing 
what to say. 

“ You are concealing something,” she repeated. 


THE REPKOACH OP AKKESLEY. 149 

“ There are occasions, Alice, he replied, “ on which one is 
bound in honor to be silent. 

Then she remembered the promise she had overheard, and 
her heart grew faint. 

“ It may be right for you to be silent/^ she returned, but 
only if you have promised. 

Alice, continued Gervase, earnestly, “ unless you wish to 
do Edward Annesley harm, you had better not enter too close- 
ly into details. 

“ 1 donT believe it,^^ she. replied, vehemently; “ truth will 
not harm him, but concealment may.^^ 

‘‘Well! I can only repeat what 1 say: if you wish to injure 
him, the means are at hand.^^ 

Alice plucked a spray of juniper which grew near, and tore 
it to pieces in agitated silence. 

“ It is curious,^'’ reflected Gervase, “ that reigning princes 
are always at war with heirs apparent. The Annesleys were 
the best of friends till this ill-fated inheritance fell to Paul.'’^ 

“ Do you think that set them at variance 

“ Undoubtedly. But Paul had another cause of strife; he 
was jealous, you know how causelessly, of Edward. Paul 
never could understand how meaningless are half a dozen 
sugared words from a military man, accustomed to two flirta- 
tions a week on an average. He could still less understand 
that a man who means nothing can be jealous from vanity. 
He was thoroughly loyal, poor fellow!” 

“ He was, indeed, Alice replied, absently. She was think- 
ing, with a sinking heart, that she must forget Edward, since 
he had never cared for her, as Gervase, so good a reader of 
character, plainly saw, and with brotherly affection and deli- 
cate tact pointed out to her. She was thinking, with still 
deeper pain, that silence with regard to that fatal hour upon 
the banks of the Doubs was the greatest kindness Edward^s 
friends could show him; his own words on that afternoon as 
well as Gervase^s present hints were witnesses to that. How 
blinded she had been to his true character by the glamour of 
her unasked love! How little she had dreamed that the very 
failing she censured so severely in Paul, want of self-control, 
was that of the man she preferred before him; the evil heritage 
of the Annesleys showing itself, not, as in the slain man, in 
an unbridled surrender of himself to his loves and likings, but 
in an inability to master the anger PauPs sarcasm and unwar- 
rantable jealousy must have kindled in him. Paul was head- 
long and uncurbed in love, and thus lost her; Edward was evi- 


150 THE EEPROACH OF AHKESLEY. 

dently headlong and uncurbed in wrath. She repudiated a 
yet darker motive on the part of the heir to so rich a property, 
a motive urged by Mrs. Annesley in moments of confidence; 
the worst thing to be attributed to Edward probably was yield- 
ing to a passionate impulse that circumstances made criminal. 
She looked at Gervase, and realized that, slight as her strength 
was comparatively, a vigorous push on her part would §end 
him beyond recovery over the verge, on that broken and 
mossy ground; she pictured two men walking or standing 
there, and saw that only bhnd passion or criminal intention 
could ignore the fatal issue of a blow in such a spot. And 
passion so blind, so reckless of consequence amounted to 
crime. What an inheritance this man had gained! his heart 
must indeed be hard if he ever derived any satisfaction from 
a thing won at so terrible a cost. Her heart went out in 23ity 
to him, but she hoped that she was incapable of any warmer 
feeling for such a man. Yet the pity was so strong that it 
blanched her face, and set her lip quivering in spite of herself. 

Leave me,^^ she said, turning to Gervase, with dimmed 
eyes; “ let me be a few minutes. If you like to wait in the 
wood, I can overtake you.^^ 

He rose at once and left her, with that quiet air of sympa- 
thetic tact which was so distinctive of him, and Alice shaded 
her face with her hand and watched the turbid waters fiowing 
past. She knew that there could be no more happiness for 
Edward Annesley in this world unless his heart were quite 
hard and bad, as few human hearts are; and she could not 
think him very bad, hardly as others might judge the man she 
had been upon the verge of loving. She sat gazing on the 
river till the hot tears quite blinded her, seeing all her youth 
and hope borne away upon the green waters which had in- 
gulfed Paul Annesley. She wondered how people managed to 
live whose hopes were broken; she had heard of maimed lives 
dragging themselves painfully along through weary, sunless 
years; she tried to summon her courage to meet such a fate, 
but it seeemd all too soon yet to piece the broken fragments 
of her life together. She wept on till she almost wept her 
heart out. Then she grew calm, the mighty peace which 
brooded oyer the sunshiny afternoon, with its careless midges 
fated to die in an hour, its humming-bees busy in the ivy blos- 
som, and its pigeons fluttering out from the great somber 
silent pines, once more touched her heart, and a still mightier 
peace than even that of Nature sunk into it. She felt that a 
life so broken as hers might be put to some nobler, more un- 
selfish purpose than one in which the music had never been 


THE REPROACH OE AHNESLEY. 151 

marred. To blend those broken chords into some diviner 
harmony would henceforth give her soul courage and purpose. 

And Edvvard? She could only pray for him. Perhaps that 
strong feeling so near akin to love had been given her that 
sacrificial incense might not be wanting on his behalf, though 
he should fail to offer it himself, as was just and due. 

She rose and rejoined Gervase in the wood below with a 
serene face and eyes full of spiritual exaltation. He looked 
at her for a moment and saw that she had been crying; then 
he averted his glance and offered her a bunch of late-blooming 
heather he had found in a sheltered crevice. She fixed it in 
the black dress she wore in memory of Paul, scarcely acknowl- 
edging an attention that was so usual with him, and they went 
tranquilly down the hill-side through the wood aud ovfer the 
marshy waste where the cotton-rush grew, in the lengthening 
ruddying sunshine, among the gradually hushing sounds of 
the evening, Alice little dreaming of the passion which en- 
veloped the purple heath-flowers as with burning flame. She 
clung in spirit to Gervase, leaning all the more upon his quiet 
brotherly friendship becaus.e of the bitterness which had re- 
sulted from the love of others. Gervase had loved her, too, 
but he had known how to conquer a feeling which gave her 
pain, and she was grateful to him. 

When, nearly an hour later, they entered the bleak village 
street, the^ saw Edward Annesley leaning over the low stone 
garden wall of the house in which he lodged, with his face 
turned toward the setting sun. With a pipe in his mouth and 
his hands clasped together at the back of his head, which was 
slightly thrown back to command a better view of the splendid 
cloud-pageant in the west, the glory of which was reflected on 
his face, he looked the picture of tranquil enjoyment, and the 
sight of him grated painfully on Aliceas feelings, wound up, 
as they were, to such a pitch. His heart must indeed be hard, 
she thought, her own recoiling from the pity she had been 
lavishing upon him. 

When he saw them, he put away the pipe and came to meet 
them, and the ruddy glow of the sunset faded from his face, 
which looked pale and care-worn. 

“lam starting from Neufchatel to-night for England, he 
said. “ Can I do anything for you. Miss Lingard?'^ 

“Thank you, nothing, she replied, coldly, and he saw 
that her eyes had recently been full of tears and that her face 
wor6 the spiritual calm of conquered sorrow. 

“You won^’t forget the parcel for my sister, Annesley, will 
you?^^ said Gervase. 


152 


THE EEPKOACH OF AKNESLEY. 


“ Certainly not. I will give it into her own hands/^ he re- 
plied. “ Good-bye, Miss Lingard.'’^ 

“ Good-bye.'' She suffered him to take her unresponsive 
hand in his firm clasp and passed on, glad to think she should 
meet him no more, at least for the present; and he remained, 
gazing after her wistfully, with a vague presentiment that he 
might never see her again. 

Gervase left Alice at the hotel door and then returned to 
Edward, who was no longer gazing at the sunset, but upon 
the blank high front of the hotel, which rose sheer and un- 
broken from the street, vaguely suggesting mountain desola- 
tion without its accompanying grandeur. 

“ 1 am afraid she is feeling it terribly," he said, when Ger- 
vase fiame up. 

“ Poor girl! what can you expect?" replied Gervase. ‘‘The 
only wonder to me is that she bears up so bravely. It does 
her no good to be here upon the scene, making pilgrimages to 
the fatal spot and throwing fiowers into that dark and dreary 
river." 

“ Of course not," he returned, wondering how Gervase 
could speak of those things in that off-hand way. He had 
himself seen her leave the village with the garden flowers, and 
it was not difficult to guess where she had been. “ Do try 
and get her away, Kickman. I can not understand," he add- 
ed, after a pause, “ why they were not formally engaged. 
There is no doubt now that she did care for him." 

“ None whatever. But Paul's was a morbid, jealous nat- 
ure; he may have taken a mere rebuff for a refusal." 

“True." 

“ The best of women have little coquettish ways which men 
never understand," pursued Gervase, with a reflective air. 
“ A girl draws back half shyly, half to bring her lover on, 
and the stupid fellow takes her literally and flies off in a fury 
and throws himself into the nearest pond, if he does not take 
to drinking." 

“ Women should be more honest," said Edward, fiercely. 
“ They should not drive men who love them to despair. Yet 
the woman always gets the worst of it in the end." 

“ It depends on the kind of woman." 

“ Do you think she has any suspicion of the truth?" he con- 
tinued. 

“ No, I think not. Indeed I am sure not." 

\ “I trust she never will." 

“ She will canonize Paul and pass the remainder of her days 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


153 


in worshiping the memory of the man she drove to desperation 
in his life-time. It is a pity. 

“ She is young. Time will heal her.'’^ 

“ You doiiT know Alice Lingard, Annesley. Her life was 
spoiled by that unlucky occurrence on the river. Poor girl! 
Sibyl, now, is of a different stamp; yet they are wonderfully 
alike in some respects. Iffl see you to the station. Time 
is up. 

0 

PART IK 


CHAPTER I. 

SHEET - SHEARING. 

The great elms bordering the lane leading to Arden Manor 
had just completed their yearly toilet, and spread out broad 
masses of delicate green foliage, as yet unstained by dust and 
imdarkened by sun, against the clear, blue sky, over which 
little clouds floated high up, pearly and ethereal as fairy cars. 
The cottage gardens were balmy with the indescribable fresh- 
ness of lilac flowers; an occasional rose in a sunny corner 
opened its sweet blossom with a sort of shy wonder at its own 
beauty, and was a treasure for a village lad to give to a sweet- 
heart, because it was so rare. The may had not yet faded 
from the thorn hedges, it bloomed white in the hollows of the 
downs, flushing pink and pinker as summer drew on; butter- 
cups made the deep pastures sheets of burnished gold; the spicy 
breath of clover filled the air. 

“ I hreckon {Squire Rickman "’ll hae a powerful weight of hay 
this year, Hanfl Pink,^^ Raysh Squire prophesied, as he took a 
thoughtful survey of the meadow which lay beyond the rick- 
yard, by the rail fence of which he was standing in the fresh 
sunshine one fine afternoon. 

The shepherd was too much preoccupied to give serious 
heed to Raysh^s prophecies. With outstretched arms and 
thoughtful face he stood making strange, dog-like noises at a 
few sheep, which had slipped by mischance from the pen in the 
midst of the straw-yard before the great barn, when the 
hurdles had been opened narrowly so as to let the sheep through 
one by one into the barn, the folding-doors of which stood 
wide, and upon the floor of which knelt bare-armed shearers, 
each with a heap of panting wool befoi’e him, through which 


154 


THE KEPKOACH OF AHNESLEY. 


the shears moved with a quick glitter and snapping, sometimes 
followed by a piteous bleat if a maladroit movement drove the 
keen points into the tender flesh. 

Eough, the wolf-like sheep-dog, barked with zealous skill 
on the opposite side, and soon managed, with his mr^ter's 
help, to drive the wanderers back into their narrow fold, where 
they stood huddled closely together, heavy-fleeced and snow- 
white from their recent washing, vainly protesting by queru- 
lous bleatings against the spoliation their brethren were un- 
dergoing. Perhaps they were anticipating the time when they 
too would lie mute and defenseless beneath the shearer^s hands, 
and then arise, white and attenuated, and trot, the thin 
specters of their former plump, fleecy selves, out at the oppo- 
site door into the green meadow beyond, where the shorn creat- 
ures nibbled at the sweet grass in the sunshine, plaintively be- 
moaning their unaccustomed lightness, with their slim bodies 
sometimes streaked with blood. 

Ifc was an anxious time for Daniel; bleak winds and chill 
rains might still come in these early June days; he could not 
bear to see the cruel marks upon the .creatures’ sides, and was 
inclined to blame the shearers’ clumsiness, while they laid it 
to the charge of the sheep, who were apt, after a few minutes’ 
perfect quiescence, to kick out of a sudden and jerk the opera- 
tor’s hand. It was not quite so bad as lambing time, and was 
sooner over, but Daniel was always thankful when shearing- 
time was well at an end, and the sheep had become accustomed 
to the loss of their winter coats. "Not so the boys, half a dozen 
of whom were standing about; they delighted in the fun and 
frolic of helping to catch the stray sheep and haul them along 
with many a tumble and tussle, now and then holding a restive 
creature for the shearer. Still more they delighted in the 
washing, which had taken place down yonder at the valley 
farm, where there was a good pond with hatches, and where 
one of the lads, helping to push a great fat ram in the water, 
had fallen plump in with the struggling beast, to the loudly 
shouted mirth of the rest. 

All the boys on the farm were gathered about the barn and 
fold-yard, with the farmers’ sons and the rector’s pupils; the 
gardener was busy in the barn, the cow-man stopped and looked 
in to see how the shearers were getting on, on his way from 
the cow-house with the evening’s milk foaming in the pails; 
John Kobbs, the bailiff, stood by the pen with his stout legs 
apart and his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and 
allowed it was “ mis’ able warm;” Mam Gale, from the 
Traveler’s Best, was there to serve out the ale, the four 


THE REPEOACH OF ANNESLEY. 


155 


o^clock, in place of the bailiff’s wife, who was laid by; a smart 
and smiling maid, another of the shepherd’s daughters, at- 
tended her; the farm-yard was full of sunshiny bustle, and 
alive with the chatter of human voices, the bleating and low- 
ing of animals, and cackle of poultry. 

Mr. Rickman stood by the bailiff with a pensive air, and 
looked on with a sort of gentle inquiry in his eyes, remarking 
to Gervase, who had ridden over from Medington that after- 
noon, that a master’s eye was everything. So Gervase thought, 
and his keen glance was everywhere, and every one knew it. 
The cow-man lingered no more than was reasonable on his 
way to the dairy; the boys took care to play no tricks, or let 
sheep through the fold ; the carters, bringing their horses in 
from the fields, loitered scarcely at all while watering them; 
the shearers did not pause in their work while they chattered 
with that arch-gossip, Raysh Squire, whose special object in 
being there it was not easy to define, unless it were that he 
considered it his duty as parish clerk to keep an eye on the 
vicar’s handful of sheep, since those ecclesiastical creatures 
were undergoing the same fate as their lay brethren. 

Yet this was scarcely necessary, since not only Joshua 
Young, the vicarage gardener and factotum, was lending a 
hand, but the vicar himself, his round hat on the back of his 
head on account of the heat, and his spectacles accurately 
balanced upon his nose, stood by Mr. Rickman’s side and 
looked upon the group. of shearers with interest. Whether the 
scene suggested any analogy with a tithe dinner to him he did 
not say. 

“ A pleasing spectacle, Merton,” Mr. Rickman observed to 
him; “ so primitive and pastoral. Virgil’s eyes beheld it, and 
even David’s. Much as science has done in destroying the 
poetry of rural life, we do not yet shear our sheep by steam. ” 

“ Or electricity,” added Gervase; “ but we shall.” 

“ I am glad the weather is warm for the poor things,” said 
Mr. Merton, who was eminently practical, and cared more 
about the welfare of his own little fiock than all the fashions 
of sheep-tending, past or future. 

“It is fortunate, or rather providential. Providence truly 
tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” replied Mr. Rickman, 
under the impression that he was quoting Scripture, and thus 
paying a fitting compliment to Mr. Merton’s cloth. * 

The proverb was new to the shepherd, who took it in with 
his outward ears and laid it aside in the dim cells of his memory 
for future contemplation. At present he was fully occupied 
with an idea which had come to him years ago, and which 


156 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


refreshed him annually, if the weather were fine, when he stood 
in Arden farm-yard at shear-time, and looked through the 
two sets of open barn-doors to the upland meadow beyond — 
the meadow steeped in sunshine till the grass was liquid 
emerald and its peacefully pasturing sheep were made of 
transparent light. The shadowed barn, into which some few 
shafts of light shot transversely, irradiating far dark corners, 
made a black frame for the sunny mead, thus enhancing its 
brilliance and lending it an ethereal beauty. Paradise, the 
shepherd thought, must be something like that green, flower- 
starred meadow, glowing with living light. Up there tlie 
Celestial Shepherd’s flock rested peacefully, feeding in the 
warm radiance, some of them with bleeding sides that would 
soon be healed forever. Down in the yard they were penned 
together, hungering, panting, scared, driven they knew not 
whither or wherefore, like men in the cruel world. Sooner or 
later all must lie under the shearer’s hands, like men beneath 
the stern shears of necessity; those that kicked bled, those that 
lay still beneath the sharp blades were unwounded, and more 
quickly set at liberty in the sweet pastures above. So the 
shepherd mused, looking stolid and vacant as he stood in his 
smock-frock with his crook in his hand, pulling his forelock 
in answer to some question addressed to him by the’ vicar. 

“ Shear-time ain’t what it was when you and me was young. 
Mam Gale,” saidEaysh Squire, graciously accepting a mug of 
four o’clock from the latter. “ I minds when half the coun- 
try-zide come to a shear feast.” 

“ And bide half the night the volk would, wi’ viddles and 
singing,” she replied. ‘‘ Many’s the song I’ve a yeard you 
zing at shear-time. Master Squire. Massy on us! here comes 
Squire Annesley!” 

The shearers’ eyes were all lifted at the click of the farm- 
gate, through which Edward Annesley was just riding in search 
of Gervase Eickman, whom he had tracked from his office in 
Medingtton and finally run to earth at Arden. 

Seeing Mr. Eickman, he got olf, giving his horse in charge 
of a carter. The man was pleased to have the handling of a 
well-bred horse, if only for five minutes; he examined the 
sleek, well-groomed creature all over, taking in its points and 
patting its beautiful neck with a look of broad satisfaction, 
While the rider walked round the pen to the three gentlemen, 
whose backs were turned, so that they were not aware of his 
presence until he had nearly joined them, when Gervase came 
to meet him. 

Mr. Eickman received him with his wonted cordiality, but 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


157 


the vicar, with a distant salutation to the new-comer, said 
something about an appointment and hurried away, promising 
to look in later. 

Edward^s face flushed and darkened as he looked after the 
retreating figure of the clergyman, and he made some satirical 
reference to the unusual amount of business the latter ap- 
peared to have on hand. 

“ It is too bad of me to invade your leisure, Eickman,^^ he 
added; “for if any mortal man earns his holidays, you do. 
But I shall not be in Medington for a day or two, and I want 
five minutes^ conversation with you, if you can spare them. 
How well your sheep look, Mr. Eickman! Are these the prize 
Southdowns?’^ 

“ These?’^ echoed Mr. Eickman, with a puzzled air. “ I 
rather think they are; eh, Gervase?^’ 

“ Those in the meadow, replied Gervase; and he asked 
Edward if he remembered when Mr. Eickman could not be 
made to understand why the sheep -washing could not be de- 
ferred till after the shearing, which he thought would be so 
much more convenient. 

“ I remember that sheep-shearing well,^^ Edward replied. 
“ Paul and 1 stayed here a couple of nights one Whitsuntide 
holidays. 

The peculiar, unpleasant smell of the sheep, their querulous 
bleating, the click of shears and clack of tongues, brought 
back the far-off sunny holidays clearly, with a mixture of 
pleasure and pain to his mind. The long-ago always has 
something sad, however sweet it may be; but subsequent 
events h^ given these memories a sting. The two boys had 
helped to push the unwilling sheep into the water. Once 
they stole some shears and cut the horses^ manes and poor 
little SibyFs hair. She used to trot after them like a little 
dog, and was always putting them up to mischief, and involv- 
ing them in scrapes, innocent in intention. He could see her 
great dark eyes, and hear PauTs merry laugh now. It pained 
him to recall those golden days, and think how far they then 
were from dreaming of the black shadow which was to rise be- 
tween them, extinguishing one life, darkening the other. 

“ Ay, to be sure; how the time goes and the children spring 
up,’^ Mr. Eickman said, as they went past the monastic-look- 
ing barns and the bailiff^s stone-buttressed house to the Manor; 
“how the time goes and nothing remains, he repeated,, going 
in and leaving them alone to dispatch their business. 

Scarcely a year had passed since PauEs death, and little 
more than a year since the fated inheritance fell to him so un- 


158 


THE KEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


expectedly by the extinction of the elder branch of Annesleys. 
But Edward looked years older than when some fifteen months 
before an accident brought him to Arden Manor to tangle the 
web of so many lives. Gervase Rickman would not now call 
him a good-looking fool if he saw him for the first time. His 
face then wore the unwritten expression of early youth, that 
strange, half -tranced look which has such a charm for the 
world-worn and weary; it was stamped to-day with an indelible 
record; the features, beautiful then with 3'oung and gentle 
curves, had become marked and masculine, though what was 
lost in grace was gained in strength. The old ready smile and 
frank, good-humored look had given place to a stern, almost 
defiant expression. He was now grave and taciturn; the re- 
proach of which Mrs. Annesley had spoken seemed branded 
upon him. 

Was that Squire Annesley? one of the shearers who came 
from a distance was asking, and was it true, as folks averred, 
that he had sold himself to the devil for Gledes worth lands? 

Some say there’s a curse on the Gledesworth lands, and it 
do seem like it,^’ John Nobbs replied; “ there was never a 
squire of Gledesworth without trouble yet. ” 

“Ah! Mr. Nobbs, there’s that on the back of Squire Annes- 
ley would break any one of ourn, let alone the heft of the 
curse,” added Mam Gale, with a mysterious air. 

“ What was it he done?” asked the shearer. 

“ Some say he shoved t’other one over clilf,” replied Raysh 
Squire. “ Whatever he done he drove a bad bargain for his- 
self. Gledesworth lands is wide and Gledesworth lands is 
hrich, but all Gledesworth lands isn’t worth what goes on in- 
zide of he. ” 

“Bad luck they lands brings,” said a shearer; “look at 
Squire Paul!” 

“ A good dacter was spiled in he,” observed Mam Gale, 
thoughtfully inverting her tin mugs to get rid of heel taps; 
“ he had as good a eye for the working of volks’ inzides as 
Mr. Nobbs hev fur the pints of beestes. Poor Ellen, sire 
couldn’t go off comfortable without him. ’Twas he zent our 
Hreub abroad with young Mrs. Annesley, and made a man 
of ’n.” 

Then the others recalled traits of Paul’s excellence. Joshua 
Young dilated on the wild wet night-ride he had taken to his 
father; Raysh averred that no one else had ever grappled so 
successfully with Grandmother Squire’s rheumatism; Jim 
Reed, one of the shearers, showed the scars on his arm, which 
had once been torn in a threshing-machine, and which Paul 


THE EEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


159 


Anuesley had saved from amp\itation. To Paul, as to many 
another artist, fame came in full flood when death had made 
him deaf to it. 

“ A understanden zart of a dacter was Paul Annesley,” said 
John Nobbs. “You minds when 1 was down in the fever, 
Danfl Pink. There was I with no more power of meself than 
a dree weeks’ babe. This yer hand,” he held up a broad, 
brown fist in the sunshine, “ was so thin as a egg-shell; you 
med a looked drough ’en. My missus, she give, me up. Mr. 
Merton said ’twas pretty nigh time to think on my zins. 
Squire Hrickman, he called in a town doctor, let alone doc- 
toring of me hisself. Thinks I to mezelf, ‘ John ISIobbs,’ I 
thinks, ‘ you’ve a got to goo, and the quieter you goos the bet- 
ter, they wunt let your widow want while she keeps her health 
for dairy work.’ There I bid abed and never knowed night 
from noon. Doctor Annesley, he came in and felt the pulse 
of me. Then he looks pretty straight at me, ‘ John Nobbs,’ 
he says, ‘ you’ve got down mis’able low, but you’ve a power- 
ful fine constitution; it’s a pity to let a constitution like yourn 
goo,’ he says, kind of sorrowful. ‘ There ain’t a man in Ar- 
den,’ he says, ‘ with a better eye fur cattle than yourn, John 
Nobbs.’ When he said this yer, I sort of waked up, fur I 
zirnmed going off quiet like when he come in, and darned if I 
didn’t begin to cry, I was that weak and low. ‘ Come now,’ 
he says, ‘ you ain’t easy beat, John Nobbs; you’ve abeen 
through wet harvests and bad lambing-times, and you never 
give in. Don’t you give in to this yer fever, John Nobbs. 
Drink off this yer stulf and make up your mind you Wunt be 
beat, and you’ll hae the laugh of we doctors,’ he says cheerful 
and eas}^ ‘ Make up your mind you wunt be beat, John 
Nobbs,’ he says. With that he poured some warm stufi into 
me and he heft me up in bed and put some pillows hround 
me, and bid me look out of window. Thinks I to myself, 
‘ You med so well hae another look hround, John Nobbs, avore 
you go. ’ And there when I looked hround athirt the archard, 
where the apple-trees was all hred with bloom and the sun- 
shine was coming down warm on them, and 1 zeen wuld Sorrel 
in close with a foal capering at her zide, and the meadow be- 
yond put up for hay with the wind blowing the grass about, 
and smelled the bean blossom drough the open window, and 
zeen everything coming on so nice, I zirnmed mis’able queer. 
Then I zes to mezelf, ‘John Nobbs,’ I zes, ‘ you look sharp 
and get up and mow that there grass, and thank the Lord, 
who have give you as good a eye for judgen cattle and as good 
a hand for a straight furrow as any man alive,’ I zes. And 


160 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


here I be/^ he added in conclusion, passing a red handkerchief 
over his broad face. 

‘‘ Sure enough, Mr. Nobbs, there you be,^^ echoed Eaysh, 
thoughtfully surveying the bailiff^s substantial, amplitude of 
body as if trying to persuade himself that he was indeed no 
aerial vision likely to fade from his gaze. “ Without he you’d 
a ben in lytten long with your vather up in the north-east 
earner by the wall; ay, you’d a ben in church lytten, Mr. 
Nobbs, sure enough.” 

“ They do say ’twas all along of a ooman they two fell out,” 
said Joshua Baker. 

“ Zure enough,” replied Mam Gale, “ Miss Lingard favored 
the captain first, then comes the doctor, and she favored he, 
and then they both come together and she favored ’em both 
and they fell out.” 

“ Ah,” said one of the shearers, pausing in the act of turn- 
ing over the sheep upon the floor before him, wherever 
there’s mischief there’s a ooman. I’ll war’nt.” 

“ Womankind,” observed Eaysh, with mournful acquies- 
cence, “is a auspicious* zart, a terble auspicious zart is the 
female zart.” 

“Womankind,” retorted Mam Gale, who was leaving the 
barn with leisurely reluctance, “ med hae their vaults, as 1 
wunt deny. But massy on us! come to think of menvolk, 
when their vaults is took away, there ain’t nothen left of ’em, 
not a scriddick. ” 

“ Womankind,” continued Eaysh, majestically disregarding 
this interruption, “ was made to bring down the pride of man. 
Adam, he was made fust, and he got that proud and vore-right 
drough having nobody to go agen en, there was no bearen of 
’n. Then Eve, she was made, and she pretty soon brought ’n 
down, and that was the Fall of Man, as you med all bread in 
the Bible.” 

“You goo on, Eaysh,” retorted Jim Eeed; “you thinks 
nobody knows the Bible athout ’tis you.” 

“ Well, 1 ’lows this young ooman have got summat to an- 
swer for,” said the stranger shearer; “ she ought to a cleaved 
to one and left t’other, which is likewise in the Bible, instead 
of wivveren about between the two to their destruction. ” 

“ It’s a mis’ able bad job, and talking won’t mend it,” said 
John Nobbs, turning the conversation, when he saw Sibyl 
standing on the granary steps at the other end of the yard, 
scattering handfuls of grain before her for the fowls, who 


* Does Eaysh mean— pernicious? 


THE JlEPUOA(’H OF ANNESEEY. 


161 


canio hurriedly flocking from all parts, cackling and clucking 
and jostling one another as they rushed helter-skelter in re- 
sponse to h^r call. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE QUESTION. 

The business for which Annesley had wished to see Gervase 
Rickman was soon transacted, and did not involve even going 
into the house. While they were still talking and pacing up 
and down beneath the fresh-leaved trees, Hubert, the deer- 
hound, came bounding up in his long, sweeping stride and 
placed his muzzle confidingly in Edward^s hand, looking up 
at him with a world of affection in his soft dark eyes. 

“ This creature loves me,^ he said, patting his head; ‘‘ dogs 
are whimsical in their likings; some instinct must tell him 
that I like him.^’ 

He takes no notice of me, the brute, replied Gervase, 
with asperity; he was jealous of the dog, who favored him 
with a watchful sidelong glance. “ I had to thrash him once, 
and he never forgave it. 

“ And I never will,^^ was the mute response in Hubert^s 
m;e. 

ba‘' His mistress can not be far off,^^ Gervase added; “ per- 
gnps you will come in, Annesley — the ladies are all at honTb. 

“ I had intended calling before I heard that you were here,^^ 
Fb replied, with a hesitating air. “ Oh, there is your father,’^ 
jie said, catching sight of Mr. Rickman, who was issuing from 
the hall porch with his usual bewildered air, as if he hSi just 
waked from a sound sleep, and was wondering where on earth 
he was. In a moment Annesley had joined the old gentleman 
and was asking him to give him a few minutes in private, to 
which Mr. Rickman readily assented, taking him to his study, 
an apartment which had formerly suggested a necromancer^s 
cave to Edward^s boyish imagination, stuffed as it was with all 
kinds of uncanny things — fossils, skeletons, minerals, insects, 
and odd bones, with unpleasant-looking bottles in wlaich rep- 
tiles appeared to be writhing and turning. 

A chair was with some difficulty cleared from the general 
overflow of papers, parchments, and books, and placed oj)po- 
site Mr. Rickman^s own aim-chair, in which he sat, regarding 
his guest attentively and trying to remember if he had recently 
applied to him on any subject connected with the house or 
land which he held of him. For Edward Annesley had for 
some months past been in undisputed possession of the Glcdes- 


162 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


worth estates, though there had at first been some difficulty in 
getting probate of Paulas will in consequence of the body not 
having been found. Gervase, however, had managed cleverly; 
so that the Gledesworth affairs had been settled in a surpris- 
ingly short time. His evidence as an eye-witness of the death 
had satisfied the Court of Probate, before which Edward 
Annesley had not been summoned. 

A vague notion that rent must be due was the sole result of 
Mr. Rickman^s mental interrogation, which continued for 
some seconds, while Annesley sat silent, looking down upon a 
pile of dusty volumes heaped pell-mell at his feet. 

‘‘1 think, Mr. Rickman, he said at last, “that you are 
Miss Liugard^s guardian.'’^ 

“I am one of her trustees, I never was her guardian; she 
will soon be of age,^’ he replied, surprised at the question. 

“ At all events,^^ continued Annesley, “ you stand in place 
of a father to her.'’^ 

“ She is my adopted child, Annesley, he replied; “ she is 
the same to us as our own daughter — ^we have had her so long. 
I question whether the tie of consanguinity is as strong as is 
generally supposed. There is no trace of it in the lower ani- 
mals; family feelings in man are the result of imagination, 
strengthened by religion, inherited social instincts, and abo 
all of habit. Perhaps I may be permitted to observe — 

“And habit has made Miss Lingard your daughter, sii, 
interrupted Edward. “ 1 need not tell you what my circun 
stances are., because you know. I came to tell you that I hav 
long loved your adopted daughter, and desire your permission 
to pay my addresses to her. 

“ You wish,^^ replied Mr. Rickman in extreme amazement, 
“ to marry — Alice 

“ Yes. It seemed right to ask your permission before ask- 
ing hers.’^ 

Mr. Rickman very deliberately removed his glasses, and, 
taking his handkerchief, began to polish them with extreme 
diligence. Having assured himself of their spotless brilliance, 
he rei^laced them at his eyes with accurate care and looked 
through them thoughtfully at his guest. 

“ My permission,'" he repeated, with a troubled air — “ niy 
permission. My dear Mr. Annesley, this is a very great sur- 
prise to me — a very great surprise. 1 had understood — I had 
been led to suppose — Ah! perhaps you are not aware that 
Miss Lingard's allections have already been given — your poor 
cousin." 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 163 

Ed ward face darkened, but his gaze met Mr. Rickman’s 
steadily. 

“ Your poor cousin,” continued Mr. Rickman, “ had been 
paying his addresses to her for some time at the date of his 
death; I am told, with only too good success. Certainly the 
poor child has never been the same since.” 

“ I know it,” he replied, “ and on that account do not ex- 
pect to win her in a moment.” 

Mr. Rickman moved uneasily in his chair and looked out of 
the lattice window into the drooping gold splendor of a 
laburnum, and watched the languid flight of a bee humming 
about the blossom. 

“I do not recommend you to prosecute the suit, Mr. 
Annesley,” he said, after a pause. “Alice is a woman of 
deep feeling; she will not forget her dead lover quickly, if at 
ail. You will only waste time and hope.” 

“ That is my concern,” he returned. “ The question is, 
have 1 your permission — have you anything to urge against 
me?” 

As he said this, he looked so steadily and even sternly at 
Mr. Rickman, and his breath came so quickly through his 
nostrils above his close-shut lips, that the old gentleman’s 
mild eyes quailed and fell, and he looked the picture of em- 
barrassed misery, fidgeting on his chair as if it had been the 
gridiron of St. Lawrence, seeking words and finding none. 

“ Is there any reason why I may not ask Miss Lingard to be 
my wife?” repeated Edward, sternly. 

“ My dear Edward,” replied Mr. Rickman, driven to bay, 
“ you must be aware that there is a — certain stigma upon 
your name — a — a reproach.” 

“ What reproach?” he demanded, proudly. 

“ My dear Annesley, I believe you incapable of the wrong 
imputed to you, pray believe that. If 1 thought differently, 
of course 1 should not have received you at my house and 
allowed my family to enter yours. But you must acknowledge 
that suvch a stigma is a serious drawback.” 

“ I acknowledge it,” he replied. 

“ I think,” continued Mr. Rickman, “ that the stigma 
might be removed by the simple expedient of relating in detail 
all that you did on that unfortunate afternoon. There seems 
to be a hiatus in your narrative, which no doubt you could 
easily fill.” 

Here Mr. Rickman was manifestly wrong, since to answer 
vague slander is to give it bodily form and substance, and 
since a slandered man’s statements are of little weight. But 


1G4 


THE REPROACH OF AHKESLEY. 


what he really meant in his heart was that Edward should re- 
move whatever vagueness there was in the knowledge of his 
intimate friends — himself in particular — of the details of 
Pauks death. 

“ You are mistaken, sir,^'’ he replied. “ Eo words of mine 
could remove the stigma, such as it is. I could not fill the 
hiatus. All I can do is to live it down, as I shall in time. I 
have, as, you probably know, a bitter enemy; who may repent. 
I'he question is, do you forbid me to ask your adopted child 
to marry me?’' 

“It is very sad," sighed Mr. Eickman, mournfully, toying 
with the bone of some extinct creature. “ Very sad. But I 
can scarcely venture to forbid you. I must refer you to Alice 
herself. I shall not forbid her, but should she seek counsel of 
me, I should certainly not advise her to marry a man who is — 
forgive me for saying what is no doubt too well known to you 
— ostracized by his class." But it was not the public ostracism 
which weighed most with Mr. Eickman; he thought that Ed- 
ward owed a full explanation to the family into which he pro- 
posed to marry. 

“ If I am cut by the county," replied Edward, “ I need not 
live at Gledesworth. I have already offered my mother and 
sisters the choice of any place they like to live in. We could 
let or leave Gledesworth. But the best plan for me is to stay 
and live it down. And my mother has agreed to stand by me 
and share it all." 

“ I have protested," said Mr. Eickman, with an air of re- 
lief, “ according to my duty. I will say no more. (Besides," 
he reflected, “ as she is certain not to accept him, it does not 
really matter whether I object or not.) I do not forbid your 
suit, but I warn you that it will not be successful. Under the 
circumstances, you are the last man to make Alice false to the 
memory of Paul Annesley." 

Edward thanked him and rose to take leave of him. “You 
are very good to me, Mr. Eickman," he said, shaking his 
hand; “ and though you do not encourage me, at least believe 
that 1 will do my best to be worthy to win her. " 

“ Don't go yet; they are all at home, I think," said Mr. 
Eickman, satisfied that he had fully done his duty in throwing 
all his faculties into the interests of every-day life for a time, 
and glad to retire mentally into his world of abstraction and 
theories once more; “ let us go and find them." 

Edward and Alice had scarcely met since Paul's death. On 
the rare occasions of his calling at Arden Manor, she hiid sel- 
dom appeared, and although she visited his mother and sisters 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 1G5 

at Gledesworth Park, her visits had occurred when he was 
away with his battery. Once or twice they had met in the 
street at Medington, where Alice often paid visits of weeks^ 
duration to Mrs. Walter Annesley, who lived on still in her 
creeper-covered house in the High Street, though in greater 
state than of old; but they had not stopped to speak to eacli 
other, on account of Mrs. Annesley^s presence. For Mrs. 
Annesley had refused to meet any of the Gledesworth Annes- 
leys since her son^s death. She had been much discomposed 
at the readiness with which probate of her son’s will had been 
granted by the court. She complained to Gervase that Ed- 
ward ought to have been summoned as a witness of the death. 
At which Gervase smiled mysteriously, and observed that it 
was unnecessary, since the court entertained no suspicion that 
he had evidence to give. Only those present in court knew 
what Gervase’s deposition was; the transaction was too unim- 
portant to be published. 

Once Alice, at Gervase’s request, had attended a political 
meeting at which the county member addressed his constitu- 
ents, previous to a re-election. Paul had then been dead about 
seven months, and Edward, overpersuaded by Gervase, had 
consented to make one of the party on the platform and de- 
liver a brief speech when called upon to do so. Except the 
member and one or two inferior local politicians, no one there 
had appeared aware of his existence. 

When it came to his turn to speak, he stood up and gazed 
with dim eyes and a whirling brain upon the unaccustomed 
sight of a sea of expectant human faces beneath him, and the 
concentrated weight of all life’s sorrows and sins came crush- 
ing upon him, in the anguish of a first effort at public speak- 
ing. He was too nervous to notice that the applause, which 
in some measure greeted the rising of every other speaker, and 
which in Gervase’s case had been tumultuous, was not forth- 
coming for him, nor did his unaccustomed ear catch an 
ominous sibilation which grew into loud hisses. Once he had 
plunged into a burning house and rescued some sleeping chil- 
dren, rushing through a sheet of flame to what seemed certain 
death, with closed eyes, singeing hair, and sobbing breath. 
With the same feeling of mortal agony and the same deter- 
mined hardening of his heart, he now plunged into the scorch- 
ing flame of public speech, and was greatly surprised when his 
preliminary “ Ladies and gentlemen ” floated tranquilly 
through the building without provoking any convulsion of 
nature, or even bringing the roof down, and he began to say 
without hesitation or circumlocution that he approved of tlie 


166 THE REPROACH OF ANHKSLEY. 

programme just presented to them by their member. Having 
done this in about six words, lie paused, reflecting that he 
might as well sit down, since he had nothing more to say, and 
wishing the others would be as expeditious, when the momen- 
tary silence was broken by the following sentence flung out in 
a high, harsh voice from the back benches: 

“ Who killed Paul Annesley?” 

Cries of “ Order!^" and “ Turn him out!” made a momen- 
tary confusion, and then Edward, roused to deflance, with the 
sweat standing on his face, began again, his nerves steadied by 
the spirit of battle, and dilated upon some detail of the mem- 
ber’s programme, interrupted by hisses, whistles, and cries of 
“ Cain!” “ Cain!” until he had to sit down, at the Instance 
of those near him, in spite of his fierce determination to face 
the matter out. ' 

Gervase afterward maintained that these cries came from 
purely Conservative sources, and were merely an attempt' to 
obstruct and break up the Liberal meeting; but as the meet- 
ing passed off quietly after the police had forcibly ejected one 
or two ardent spirits, it was difficult to believe that the person- 
ality had only a political origin. 

Alice never forgot the look on Edward’s face when he sat 
down after this, with his arms folded on his breast. 

“ He should have left the room,” she said, discussing it 
afterward. 

“ Oh, no!” objected Sibyl. ‘‘ It was better to face it out, 
like the brave man he is.” 

“ He will never again take an active part in local politics,” 
commented Gervase. “ I wish I had not advised him to be- 
gin so soon. ” 

When Mrs. Walter A.nnesley heard of the occurrence, she 
laughed, and observed that Heaven was just; but to Alice she 
said nothing, the two having agreed that Edward Annesley’s 
name was not to be mentioned between them. 

When Mr. Rickman conducted Edward from his study after 
their private interview, they found Alice and Sibyl in the 
garden behind the house, entertaining Horace Merton and his 
sister, a child of twelve, who had strolled in from the vicarage. 
Tea was set on a table under the apple-trees, the gray ridges 
of the solemn down rose high against the tranquil blue of the 
sky, aiid;' but for the fullness of the leaves, the loss of the 
apple-bloom and the difference of the flowers in the borders on 
either side of the broad turf walk, the scene was the same as 
on that April day the year before, when Paul and Edward had 
surprised each other there. The pungent fragrance of burn- 


THE REPROACH OE ANNESLEY. 


167 


ing weeds helped the similitude, and the tall St. Josephus lilies, 
with their dazzling white petals and hearts of virgin gold, stood 
as sentinels behind Alice, in place of the soldier-like narcissus, 
which had then poised their green lances and held their heads 
erect behind her. 

Alice rose from the bench on which she was sitting and 
came to meet him; when she took his offered hand he looked 
in search of the old nnspeakable something he had formerly 
seen there, but he found nothing save a settled sorrow in the 
glance that met his so tranquilly. His heart misgave him, and 
he knew that he must wait before he could win her; her loss 
was still too fresh. He sat there like one in a dream, gazing 
at the young people who were shooting at the target, and 
stroking the head Hubert laid on his knee, while Mrs. Rick- 
man chatted tranquilly, and Gervase preluded upon his violin 
at a little distance, where he could see everybody and watch 
them, thinking many thoughts which his music helped. 

AVhen Alice came to the tea-table Edward placed his chair 
for her and stood at her side, leaning against a tree, and began 
hoping that she would not fail to be one of the luncheon -party 
at Gledesworth at the end of the week. 

“ If you do not come this time,^^ he said, in a low tone, so 
that others might not hear him, “I shall begin to think you 
have some quarrel against me.^^ 

“ Oh, Mr. Annesley!’^ she replied, earnestly, “ pray do not 
think that. 

“ I have enemies,^^ he continued, in the same low voice. 
“ I hope you are not among them. A^ou promised once that 
you would be my friend, if you remember. 

‘‘ And I am your friend,^" she replied, raising her eyes and 
speaking very clearly though softly and a little tremulously; 
“ I could never be otherwise.'’^ 

“ Thank you,"’ he replied, and he almost started wdieu he 
discovered Gervase close at hand offering him a seat, to take 
which obliged him to leave Alice, since her chair was on the 
outside of the semicircle, and the only vacant chair was at the 
other end next Sibyl, who turned at his approach and wel- 
comed him with her usual cordial smile. 

“ Do you like being in the army, Mr. Annesley,'" asked 
little Kale Merton across the table all of a sudden, in a silence 
which followed some peaceful and commonplace discussion. 

“ Naturally, Miss Kate. I entered the service of my own 
will,” he replied. Why do you ask? Would you object to 
it 11 you were a boy?” 

“ Then how will you like having to leave it?” continued the 


168 


THE IIEPTIOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


ingenuous maiden. Papa says you were recommended to 
resign — ’’ 

Kate, be quiet/^ muttered her brother, pinching her. 

“ Well, he did; Horace, you heard him,"^ she went on, “ and 
you said it was as good as being turned out. ” 

“ If ever I go out again with that brat!^^ thought Horace, 
trying to stop the child ^s tongue; but Edward would not have 
her quieted. 

“ You may tell your papa that I have not been recommend- 
ed to resign, he said. “ You need not scold your sister, Mr. 
Merton; she merely shows me what a very kind interest people 
take in my affairs, he added, sarcastically. 

After this the conversation was forced and spasmodic, and 
it gradually dawned upon little Miss Merton that she had made 
a hole in her manners, for which she would subsequently suffer 
penance. Edward wondered if the fact of his having actually 
been recommended to leave the service by a brother officer of 
subaltern rank, as a means of escaping a coldness that threat- 
ened to grow into . ostracism, could possibly have become 
known, and so have given rise to this report. 

He sat silently sipping his tea, with a gloomy face and eyes 
bent on the turf at his feet. Sibyl looked at him, the soft fire 
of her dark eyes all clouded with pity, and the tenderest sym- 
pathy speaking from her sweet face. Her father, usually so 
unobservant, surprised the look, and his own lined face soft- 
ened. “What a pity!^^ he thought to himself, “ my clever 
little Sib!’^ Gervase saw it, and his face darkened; Alice 
saw nothing but the grass on which her eyes, like Edward^s, 
were bent in silent melancholy. Then Edward looked up and 
caught the full stress of yearning compassion in SibyPs guile- 
less face and his heart was touched; for a sympathy, so com- 
plete, so mute, and so impotent is rarely seen in a human face, 
but sometimes in a faithful animaPs loving gaze. For an in- 
stant SibyPs beautiful soul seemed to meet his and surprise 
him with its sweetness; then a ripple of laughter passed over 
her face, and she began to rally him on his melancholy. “We 
are all so dull and heavy to-night, there must be thunder in 
the air,^^ she said. “ Alice, do tell us how you went to the 
Dorcas meeting at Medington and how the curate came in to 
tea with the fifty Dorcas ladies. I often wonder what we 
should do if curates were abolished,^ ^ she added. “ There 
would be nothing to amuse people in little towns. 

“Oh! this story is too humiliating to our poor sex,^^ replied 
Alice, rousing herself from painful thought; “ besides, I leave 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


169 


all the little malicious tales to you, Sibyl, no one can surpass 
you in that line/^ 

“ Unlucky curate, to fall into Sibbie^s hands,^^ commented 
Gervase. 

But not even SibyBs matchless description of the solitary 
and bashful curate having tea with fifty grimly virtuous ladies 
could beguile the heaviness from Edward Annesley’s face, 
though he joined in the laughter it provoked; nor did all the 
inerry discussions and illustrations of curate- worship, as prac- 
ticed in the Anglican communion, which Gervase enriched by 
anecdotes, more amusing than authentic, appear to interest 
him. 

Some haunting care imbittered everything; he had the pre- 
occupied look of a man who is perpetually remembering some- 
thing he would like to forget. 


CHAPTER 111. 

AT SUNSET. 

The Mertons left early, and Gervase Rickman looked ex- 
pectantly at Edward, thinking he would follow them, which 
he did not. Mr. Rickman had long since vanished into the 
charmed privacy of his study, and Mrs. Rickman had gone in 
to avoid the dew, but sat at work in a window looking out on 
the garden. 

“ I must go to the shearers^ supper, Gervase said at last. 

Perhaps, Annesley, you would not care to look in as well. 
You would find the humors of a shear-feast stale 

“Of course he would,” Sibyl replied for him. “But 1 
shall go' and have my health drunk. Nonsense, Gervase, I 
shall go. You know I always do look in for a minute. Come 
at once.” 

She took her brother's arm and bore him oil, j^rotesting, 
laughingly, it is true, yet seriously annoyed with Sibyl for 
coming with him, and angry at Annesley^s bad taste in re- 
maining with Alice. 

The shearers^ supper was spread in the kitchen, a long, low, 
dark room with black oaken beams, filled now with the odor 
of hot food, the clatter of knives and forks ajid human voices, 
and the Rembrandt shadows caused by the fire-light playing 
on the mingled dusk and steam. 

Good ale and good beef had by this time brought the slow- 
working heavy machinery of rustic sj^eech into full play. 
Raysh Squire was telling his best story; that of the smugglers 
hidden in a tomb, whose morning uprising from their hiding- 


170 THE REPBOACH OF ANHESLEY. 

place made some early laborers going forth to their work think 
the last day was come. John Nobbs had just brought forth a 
new and powerful joke, at the remembrance of which his 
waistcoat still heaved spasmodically. He was considering 
which of his songs, “ In the Lowlands Low/^ or “ A Gentle 
Maiden, Fair and Young,^’ he should sing. Sibyl would fain 
have lingered at this scene, the unsophisticated humors of 
which pleased her lively fancy, but after the -inging of 

“ Here’s a health unto our Measter, the vounder of the veast,” 
Gervase insisted on her going. 

She went out slowly, and leaving the house and garden, 
passed round by the barns, and strolled away in the balmy 
June gloaming, until she reached the belt of firs, the moaning 
music of which was now still for awhile; there she stopped and 
saw the first pale stars tremble into the transparent lemon- 
tinted, sky. 

She turned her face to the beautiful west, leaned her arms 
upon the rail fence, beyond which the shorn sheep were brows- 
ing ^vith plaintive bleating and mellow bell-tinkling, and 
watched the familiar miracle of the star- rising with all the 
enthusiasm of romantic youth; her ardent imagination sug- 
gesting thoughts and aspirations, and conjuring up visions 
hidden from others; for Sibyl had the sublime misfortune to 
be a poet, as if being a woman were not bad enough. 

A nightingale's song, mellow, rich and turbulent, poured 
from a copse hard by, and the tears sprung to Sibyl's eyes. 

“ When the world is so beautiful," she mused, “ and there 
is the hope of one still more beautiful, what can we want 
more?" 

Then she fell into a train of thought, trying to find out and 
give expression to the broad, general meaning of those con- 
fused and conflicting currents which make up the full stream 
of human life. The best thing in youth, next to its unspoiled 
capacity for enjoyment, is the limiteless field of vision and 
conjecture which its dim future oders. Sibyl stood solitary 
and pensive in the summer twilight, and mused upon the 
mighty current of human life, and her own little portion of 
it, trying to picture what the future might bring her, with 
an ardent face and infinite depths of thought in her dark eyes. 
She saw her parents bending under the burden of years, and 
clinging to her for support; she saw herself expressing 
thoughts which sometimes threatened to consume her, and 
establishing a subtle sympathy between herself and thousands 
of unknown souls. But one side of life might never fully be 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


171 


revealed to her, a whole sequence of joys and sorrows must be 
denied her, she could be only the spectator of the leading 
events in the drama of life. ‘Thus, alie reflected, she might 
get a truer image of the whole than if her vision were distorted 
by the storm and stress of personal experience. For some 
deep instinct made a fair unbroken view of life necessarv to 
Sibyl. 

So these thoughts came to her as she lingered beneath the 
firs, her bright face lifted to the sky and irradiated by its 
lustp; these, and others too deep or too sad to be uttered. 

In the meantime Edward found the opportunity he had so 
carefully sought. He was alone with Alice, whose spirit was 
stirred by the thought that a crisis in her life was approaching, 
and still more by the fear that she might be too weak to pass 
triumphantly through it. They strolled silently between the 
tall white sentinel lilies, the dazzling petals of which shone in 
glorious purity against the green of the espaliers. Edward 
was too overcharged with feeling to speak, and his heart mis- 
gave him when he perceived how changed Alice’s face was 
since the day when first he saw it. If the face had been dear 
then, it was tenfold dearer now, though the first glory of youth 
was gone and its early luster dimmed. During the past 
months Alice had suffered a wearing, wasting pain, which he 
was far from divining, and the perpetual conflict, while mar- 
ring the beauty of her face, had left its stamp in an ethereal 
charm only seen in those who, like Jacob, have wrestled 
spiritually and prevailed. The patriarch halted on his thigh 
after that night’s wrestling. No one may issue alive un- 
scarred from such conflict, and Alice never regained her 
youthful bloom. Her face was thin, her eyes were too bright. 
And though this suffering was, as he thought, for another, it 
endeared her to the man who loved her so truly. 

Of late she had fought hard against the conclu^on which 
had forced itself upon her by the river-side. Whenever she 
saw Edward she could not accept the verdict her own reason 
forced upon her. So it came to pass that her thoughts con- 
tinually buffeted her and gave her no rest; she rose in the 
mornings burdened by the weight of another’s guilt, and 
struggled mentally all the day, till at night she lay down with 
the hope that some misconception existed, and that a straight- 
forward recital of all that occurred on that most unhappy 
afternoon would remove the stigma from Edward Annesley’s 
name, only to rise and renew the conflict on the morrow. And 
when he uttered those few words at the tea-table to-day, his 
voice, the silent devotion in his manner, and the light in his 


m 


THE KEPKOACH OF ANNESLEY. 


eyes, stirred a new feeling in her, which should have been 
hope, but was fear. Till now she had not thought that he 
loved her; she had accepted Ger vase's theory that his jealousy, 
unlike Paul's, was the evil fruit of a light and passing fancy, 
llis- very silence, as they paced the turf walk in the balmy 
evening, told her more eloquently of his love than any speech; 
and the wild flutter of pulses within her told her too truly that 
she loved him in return. 

After all she was the first to speak; the pent-up resolve to 
question him at all hazards breaking forth almost before she 
was aware of it. 

“ Mr. Annesley," she said, gently and calmly, in spite of 
the thick heart-beats which threatened to choke her, “ I am 
glad to be alone with you for a moment. I wish to ask you a 
very serious question." She stopped, facing him, and looked 
down on the grass at their feet, where the closed daisies really 
looked like pearls, margaritcB^, “ You will perhaps think it 
impertinent. " 

‘‘ How is that possible?" he remonstrated, recovering from 
the first shock of surrpise. “ Any and every question you care 
to ask can be but an honor to me." 

You have asked me more than once to be your friend," 
she continued, “ and in that name I venture to ask this, not 
from curiosity or any mean motive, but solely for your own 
sake." 

“ Dearest Miss Lingard, this is too good of you," he re- 
plied, when she paused at a loss for further speech. “ I too 
have something to ask and something to say, but 1 will hear 
first," he smiled, half in pleasant mockery, “ what your com- 
mands are." 

Alice still looked down upon the closed heads of the daisies, 
her hand^ nervously locked together before her, her lips com- 
pressed, and her face full of feeling and purpose. The setting 
sun threw a glory upon her; swallows wheeled in the pure 
pale sky overhead; sheep-bells, farm-yard sounds, birds' songs, 
and the voices of village children at play, came borne in soft- 
ened tones upon the still evening air; opening roses, meadow 
clover, lily seents, and the vague perfume of the young foliage, 
breathed a charm of fragrance about the two lovers, to whom 
the whole epth seemed charged with the meaning and melody 
of etherealized passion. Her heart was overfull, she could 
scarcely find words to express her burning thoughts. 

“ You suffer," she said, at last, “ under an imputation — 
that is all the more terrible because it is so vague." 

Edward started as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his 


THE IIEI’JIOACH OF ANNESLEY. K.') 

heart; tlio whole world changed for him, the sunlight wao 
gray, and the air lost its balm. 

“ Yes,^^ he replied. 

“ I have thought,^" she went on, her heart beating still 
more rapidly, “ much upon it. And I have thought that you 
might remove this — this reproach. 

‘"IT can not,” he replied, pale and agitated — ‘‘ Alice, I can 
not.” 

Alice’s memory vibrated with the words she had heard in 
the pine wood. ‘ Promise that you will never tell. All need 
never be known. Above all she niust never know. ” She knew 
now that she was the Helen of that fatal fratricidal strife. 

‘‘Oh, do not say that!” she cried. “Surely, surely you 
should tell all that happened on that day. Perhaps, after all, 
you have told all?” she pleaded, wringing her hands in Ihe 
intensity of her hope. “Oh! you have told ail, and what is 
rumored of something concealed is only scandal,” she urged, 
though his own words about concealment sounded in her mem- 
ory, even as she spoke, like the boom of a funeral knell. 

He turned away, and then he turned again and looked in 
her agitated face. 

“ You mean well, dearest Miss Lingard,” he said, “but 
this discussion is as useless as it is painful. I can bear the 
burden, such as it is. I shall live it down. After all, what is 
the opinion of others?” 

“ Is my opinion nothing?” she asked. 

“ It is everything. Alice, Alice, think as kindly of me as 
you can. I love you, Alice, I loved you the first moment I 
saw you; do not mistrust me.” 

He had now taken her hands and obliged her to look at 
him, which she did through tears. 

“ Tell me the whole truth,” she said. 

“ No, Alice; believe in me, but do not ask me this,” he re- 
plied. “ Of all people 1 can never tell you the story of that 
hour. ” 

“ Would it not ease your mind to speak freely to one who — 
who — who is your friend?” she continued, in a way that 
touched him. 

“ No,” he answered; “ no. It can not be. I must ask 
you to bury tin's subject in your memory forever. Dearest 
Alice, I know what sorrow fell upon you on that day. I have 
not spoken to you of my feelings since, because I respected 
your grief. But what is past is past, and can not be changed, 
and you are young and without near ties. And I have loved 
you, faithfully and truly, ever since that day when I first saw 


174 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


you. And 1 came here to-day to ask you — not to be my wife 
— it is oversoon for you to think of that, but to begin a new 
life and think of my need of' you, and let me see you from 
time to time and try to win you. When you know that my 
whole heart is bound up in you, will you not try to take me 
for your husband?^’ 

Alice disengaged the hands he had been clasping in the 
growing intejisity of his words, and stood a little further from 
him, pausing before she replied, with a strong resolve to put 
away feeling and listen only to duty. 

“ Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Annesley?’^ she 
asked at last; “ you come to me with a stain upon you, and 
you refuse to remove it by an explanation. 

Time will efface that stain,^'’ he replied, shrinking slight- 
ly beneath her words, which cut him to the heart. And 
though I am stout enough to face the world ^s scorn and bear 
the burden myself, I should never ask a wife to share it. I 
would ask her to leave this place and let me find her a home 
where these rumors have not been heard. 1 know that this is 
a disadvantage, but if love can atone for anything, my love is 
strong enough to atone for this. If you could onceTearn to 
love me, Alice, and you might in time, the world’s opinion 
would weigh lightly with you.” 

She was dumb with amazement. The man who stood be- 
fore her, exalted by honest feeling, his face earnest, and his 
.voice eloquent with passion, could not be guilty of what was 
imputed to him. Nor could he be a dissimulator. Her heart 
went out to him, she longed for mental blindness, she would 
have given half her life not to have overheard his compact 
with Gervase, or Ger vase’s subsequent hints. If she could 
but wipe that hour from her memory and trust him, as he ex- 
pected her to trust him, then she could give herself to him 
with perfect unreserve and share the burden that was pressing 
so heavily upon him, with no reproach from her conscience. 

‘‘Mr. Annesley,” she at last replied, coldly, “you can not 
love me if you do not trust me. And if you trusted me, you 
would confide your secret to me.” 

“ My secret!” a red flash rushed over his face. “ Why do 
you attribute a secret to me ? I see that I can never win your 
love, since I have not won your trust.” 

He turned away, his face dark in the chill twilight, and the 
misery in it went to Alice’s heart. “ Let me trust you,” she 
besought him, “ tell me what foundation there is for these 
dark surmises. Believe me, Mr. Annesley, I should like to 
trust you,” she added, with a pathos which moved and yet 


THE REPROACH OF AKHESLEY. 


175 


gladdened him. Surely there was a little love in that beseech- 
ing voice, he thought, and he seemed to see it in the face upon 
which he turned to gaze in the pale twilight. 

“ Trust me,’^ he said, his voice vibrating with strong feel- 
ing, “ trust me perfectly with a large, unquestioning trust. 
Remember, once for all, I can not clear up this mystery. 
You do not know what you ask, or you would never ask it. 
Trust me. 

Alice began to tremble again, and she clasped her hands 
together with a silent prayer for guidance. It would be so 
sweet to say “ I trust you;^^ but, knowing what she knew, so 
wrong; the thing she was asked to condone was too terrible. 

“No,’" she replied, “I can not trust one who does not 
trust me.” 

He was silent and heart-struck. Once more he turned aside 
and gazed blankly away over the balmy garden, where the 
flowers poised their heads in a dreamy stillness that seemed to 
yearn for speech, and a brown mystery of shadow was being 
woven about the trees, away to the firs, beneath which Sibyl 
was standing unseen, to the meadows where the sheep were 
grazing tranquilly in the mystic gloaming, to the coppice from 
the green heart of which a nightingale was singing, to the hill 
dark against the sky which was bright with the after-glow and 
pierced by a few pale, faint stars. 

“ I do trust you, and 1 love you as I shall never love again,” 
he said, after a brief, sharp spasm of pain, “ but it is all over 
now. Only think as kindly as you can of me, Alice, and re- 
member me when you want a friend.” 

He was going, but an overwhelming impulse moved her to 
delay him. 

“ Stay,” she cried; do not go like this.” 

He came back quickly, took her hands, and spoke without 
reserve wild words of passion. 

“ Hush!” she cried; “ do not speak like that,” and he was 
silent. 

“Think it over,” he said, presently, “1 can wait. Say 
that I may come again later. ” 

The apparition of Gervase at the end of the turf walk made 
them start asunder, and they went to meet him, the agitation 
in their faces hidden by the friendly dusk. Gervase appeared 
surprised to see them. “ I thought you had gone long ago, 
Annesley,” he said, apparently untroubled by the thought 
that his company was superfluous. “ What a charming night! 
Somebody said Sibyl was out here; have you seen her, Alice?” 


17G 


THE REPEOACII OF ANNESLEY. 


‘‘It is later than I thought/^ said Edward; “ these long 
days deceive one. There is no real night at all. 

“ The moon will rise soon/^ returned Gervase; “ you had 
better wait for her. I envy you your ride over the downs. 
When are you and I to have our moonlight stroll, Alice 

“Not to-night, she replied, “I am tired. And when 
they reached the garden door she vanished into the shadowed 
house with a brief “ good-night, responding by a slight in- 
clination of the head to Edward’s murmured injunction, 
“Write.” 

Then he rode away in the dewy silence, and thought it all 
over with a heavy heart in which there glowed scarcely a spark 
of hope. Over the ghostly downs in the faint dusk and in the 
rising moonlight he rode, up and down and across for miles 
and miles, and every rood of land over which he rode was his 
own. He looked sadly at his fair inheritance sleeping tran- 
quilly in the magical moonlight, woodland, farm and field 
spread over the undulating down-land, and in the j^lain be- 
neath; he would have given half his life to be free of it, for 
the price he had paid for it was too heavy. The face of Paul, 
as he had last see.a it, dark with passion and bitter with mock- 
ery, floated before him ghost - like, and took the ethereal 
sweetness from the moonlight, and dimmed the glory of the 
calm infinite night. He saw well that the dead Paul was as 
serious a barrier as the living one had been. Even if Alice re- 
covered from her sorrow, this silence between them must ever 
keep them apart; since she did not trust him, he could never 
hope to win her love. 

While he rode away thus in the dim summer night, the 
tranquil household at Arden quieted down, and when the fam- 
ily had retired for the night, Sibyl knocked at Alice’s door and 
entered her room. 

“ Have you anything to say to me to-night?” she asked. 

“ Nothing,” replied Alice, who was accustomed to this lit- 
tle formula, the prelude to some sisterly confidence; “ have 
you anything to confess?” 

“ My sins have not been very black to-day,” replied Sibyl, 
kissing her with unwonted tenderness, “ but I thought — Alice, 
have you sent him away?” 

Alice silently kissed her forehead. 

“All the world is against him,” continued Sibyl; “ you 
should stand by his side. ” 

Alice burst into tears, and said nothing. 

“Is it because you believe these hateful scandals?” Sibyl 


THE KEPKOACH OF AKHESLEY. 177 

went on. “ Surely you can not think there is any truth in 
them?’^ 

“ 1 think/'’ said Alice, lifting her head from Siby/s shoul- 
der, “ that he ought to clear himself.^' 

“ How could he?^^ 

“ He should make a full and clear statement of all that he 
did that afternoon. 

“ Yes. And publish it in the papers, and make the town- 
crier proclaim it in Medington streets, retorted Sibyl, scorn- 
fully, “ and who would believe it?^^ 

It had not occurred to Alice before that he could not now 
clear himself; that the more he noticed the vague accusations 
lodged against him, the more substance they would take; that 
notiiiug short of a public trial, with its formal charges and 
formal refutation of them, ending in an acquittal, could elface 
the stain upon him. If a man is said to be an untrustworthy 
man, it is impossible to disprove the charge; if he is accused 
of forgery, he can not be held guilty untd the charge is sup- 
])orted by reliable evidence. No special accusation could be 
brought against Edward Annesley; the worst that was urged 
against him was matter of surmise at the most. The case 
stood thus: the cousins had quarreled, and it was known that 
they had been near each other, if not together, within a few 
minutes of the violent death of one; it was not known where 
the survivor was at the moment of the accident, the fatal ter- 
mination of which only was witnessed by a third person. The 
death was of great advantage to the survivor, the motive for 
crime was present. The fact that the dead mother re- 

fused to meet his heir and her nearest kinsman was impressive. 
How all this was known, and how all these surmises and con- 
jectures had been built upon the foundation of facts known 
only to a few person, and occurring in a foreign country, was 
a mystery that Edward Annesley and his friends vainly at- 
tempted to solve. 

“ He must have some deadly enemy, Sibyl had said once, 
whereuj^on Gervase advised her not to repeat that observation. 

“ If you wish to ruin a personas reputation,''’ he added, 
“ the best way is to lay some charge that admits no disproof 
against him, and get it well talked about. 

“ True,''’ replied Mr. Rickman, who was present, “ a germ 
of fact infinitesimal in magnitude, accompanied by a certain 
bias, when passed through the minds and mouths of numerous 
narrators, develops to enormous and unexpected proportions. 
Kach narrator adds from a defective or careless memory; hear- 
says are reported as witnessed facts; imagination supplies gaps 


178 


THE REPROA(^H OE ANNESLEY. 


and enhances details, because the innate artistic feeling of 
mankind demands a properly proportioned story. A savage 
performs some isolated feat of endurance, he develops into a 
hero; the deeds of several such heroes are in the course of time 
attributed to one, whose actions gradually become miraculous, 
until ill the course of ages the brave savage is a god. . Such 
are myths, such is the legendary dawn of history.'’^ 

These words Alice remembered now, acknowledging their 
justice, and bitterly regretting and censuring the concealment, 
which she thought the cause of the whole imbroglio. 

Better, far better for Edward, she thought, it would have 
been, had he given himself up to the Cantonal authorities as 
having been the accidental cause of his cousin^s death, if, as 
she supposed, that death had occurred in the course of a quar- 
rel or struggle in which both had forgotten the dangerous 
nature of the ground on which they stood. If, as she had 
often hoped, Edward had merely witnessed the accident, why 
did he not report what he saw? why was there any conceal- 
ment? was he afraid of attaching suspicion or blame to him- 
self? AVas he, in short, a coward? 

“After all,^^ said Sibyl, at the end of their conference in 
Alicea’s chamber that summer night, “ what do these calumnies 
matter? They pain him naturally. But he will soon live 
them down.'’^ Which was but an echo of Edward^s words in 
the garden that night, Alice reflected, as the doors closed upon 
Sibyl, and left her to the unwelcome companionship of her 
own thoughts. 


CHAPTER IV. 

CONFLICT. 

SiBYL^s reasoning could not quiet the fever in Aliceas breast. 
The words Edward Annesley had used on the fatal afternoon 
when he implored Gervase's silence, rang in her ears and 
would ring forever, and the edelweiss she had seen in his hat 
was always bearing witness against him. How could the 
cousins have exchanged hats? and why did Edward remove the 
edelweiss as soon as he perceived it? The only solution was 
that he had some part in the accident, involving the tem- 
porary loss of his owii hat as well as of PauPs, and had taken 
Paul’s by mistake. It was still possible that Edward’s part in 
the accident was innocent, or at least unintentional; Paul 
might have been the aggressor; but if Edward’s part was in- 
nocent, why did he conceal it? Ah! why? was the weary bur- 
den of the perpetual strife within her? 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLET. 179 

Few things were more hateful to Alice in the proud purity 
of her own transparent truthfulness than anything approach- 
ing to deceit. It was painful to her to have to withhold the 
most innocent truth. She could not conceive, in the noble 
simplicity of her nature, that an honorable man could be 
ashamed to publish any incident in his life. She could not re- 
spect a man with any such concealment. Yet she loved him; 
she would willingly have yielded up her life if she could but 
see the veil lifted, and Edward’s honor and integrity shining 
clear and unsullied behind it. 

There was no rest for her that night; she knew that a worse 
conflict than any she had yet endured must be struggled 
through before dawn. She said her usual prayers mechanic- 
ally, she could not drive the one subject from her thoughts, 
and then she sent up that inarticulate cry for help, which the 
soul utters in its extremity, and which is more eloquent, or at 
least more earnest, than any syllabled prayer. 

The moon had risen and the night was warm and still. 
Alice wanted air, the anguish within her bid fair to stifle her. 
She extinguished her lights and sat by the open lattice, gazing 
out into the vast calm night, wrestling inwardly, half in pray- 
er, half in thought. Sibyl came back on some trivial errand 
and saw her sitting there, pale and statuesque, shrouded from 
head to foot in a luminous veil of moonbeams, her head resting 
on her hand, her gaze directed to the pale pure sky, which was 
studded with celestial watch-fires made faint by the white 
moonlight. The girls knew each other’s moods, and Sibyl 
withdrew, aware that it was useless to say anything. Her 
heart ached for Alice; she carried the picture of the still and 
suffering figure traced upon the night’s faint darkness, and 
etherealized by the fairy web of white rays woven about her, 
into the perplexed wonder-land of her own fantastic dreams. 

Over and over again did Alice argue the case for the prosecu- 
tion and that for the defense, with varying biit always unsatis- 
factory verdict. AVhat steeled her heart most against Edward 
was the fact of his enjoying Paul’s inheritance. If some angry 
or accidental violence on his part had caused his cousin’s death, 
surely he might renounce the fruits of that death, he might 
make over the property to his next brother, at least. But no, 
he enjoyed the land without apparent remorse, and now he 
wished to take the lady as well. If he came to her, penitent 
and mihappy, she would gladly throw in her lot with his, 
loyally sharing the burden and the bitterness, and helping him 
retrieve the past. Even now there were movements when her 
heart so yearned oVer him that she felt that love must be 


180 


THE REPROACH OE ANHESLEY. 


paramount to everything — she must close her eyes on what 
she was not supposed to know, and make the best of what re- 
mained of his stained life, trusting him with the large gener- 
ous trust he had asked of her, and evoking the better soul in 
the man who, as she knew, loved her' deeply. As his wife he 
would perhaps confide in her, and she would help him make 
such atonement as was possible, loyally sharing his reproach. 
13 lit then the horror of this secret rushed upon her soul, and 
she felt that to marry one to whom she imputed things so 
dark, would be to share in his sin: such a union could never 
bo blessed of Heaven or bring any happiness to either of them. 
Slie thought of children who would inherit a curse, and to 
whom she would fear to speak of their father^s life. She saw 
darkness standing forever between them, an impassable bar- 
rier; she saw the years passing on and making the confession 
harder and harder. She thought of PauFs desolate mother, 
childless in her lonely old age, bereft of thO one son she had so 
passionately loved, and in him of all the joy of her widowed 
life. It would be a treason to her to link her lot with Ed- 
ward’s. She had been much with Mrs. Annesley of late, and 
the desolate woman had grown very dear to Alice’s filial heart. 
She never repeated her first passionate accusation of her 
nephew to Alice, but her silence with regard to him was terri- 
bly eloquent. She clung to Alice and to no one else, and be- 
sought her not to leave her; she was the only comfort left her, 
she told her again and again. 

After all, Edward had enough without her: he had youth, 
health, and friends, and the wealth and infiuence that would 
in time attract more; for no doubt, as he said, he would live 
these slanders down. He might indeed have such j)angs of 
conscience as would take the luster out of the very sunlight. 
Yet when his face rose before her in all the reproach of its 
earnest, honest love, as she had seen it in the garden that 
night, she coqld not attribute any wrong to him. Then re- 
curred the old monotonous burden, \^hy, why did he conceal 
anything? Surely if he sought her as his wife, he owed it to 
her to keep back nothing of his past; to demand that large 
generous trust was an insult. No; with that reserve he could 
not love her truly and trustfully. The world’s verdict was 
nothing if she could but strangle the terrible serpent of doubt 
which gnawed so incessantly upon her heart. 

She looked down into the quiet garden, where they had 
walked in the evening dews, when he told her the old tale that 
every woman loves to hear and yearns to respond to; she 
thought of his coming on that early spring day when she sat 


THE ItEPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


18 i 


among her flowers and looked up and loved him, and felt that 
he loved her, before there was time to reflect; she knew that 
she must love him forever and ever, and that without him she 
could know nothing of the joy and beauty of life. She could 
not give him up, she was too weak; it seemed as if her frail 
being must be rent asunder in the struggle. 

So she thought, over and over again, praying for guidance, • 
while the hours went on. 

Presently she saw the pencil of rays which streamed from 
Gervase^s chamber window, showing he was busy within, van- 
ish, and she knew that all the house was asleep and silent as 
death. The tall eight-day clock ticked loudly in its oaken 
case in the hall; like a living pulse of family life, it chimed 
hour after hour in its friendly, familiar voice; she remenibered 
how she had listened to it in the silence of the first forlorn 
night she passed, a friendless child, beneath the roof which 
had since sheltered her so warmly. She thought of all their 
kindness, and the little she had ever been able to do for them 
in return. She remembered Gervase^s love, which he had so 
generously conquered; why could she not have loved him? 
She had taken SibyPs lover from her, she had blighted PauPs 
life, she had brought she knew not what between the cousins, 
probably had been the cause of PauPs death; why had she 
been made the unwilling instrument of so much trouble? She 
would at least try to do well. She took counsel of the quiet 
night; the deep, serene silence sunk like balm into her soul. 
The pale pure stars spoke peace to her troubled breast; the 
shrouding moonshine slanted and glided gradually away from 
her window, leaving her in the soft shadows. 

The flowers slept in the garden beneath; friendly Hubert 
slept his watchful dog-sleep at her door; the horses were 
quiet in their stalls, the rattle of a halter or tlie stamp of a 
hoof was too far off to be heard even through that throbbing 
silence; the cocks and hens were all still on their perches; the 
sheep and cattle grazed so quietly in the distant meadows, they 
scarcely seemed to move; a wind, which woke and sighed 
through the balmy foliage of the new-leaved trees, died away; 
the nightingale^s song had ceased suddenly long ago; only the 
weird occasional creaking of furniture, the rustle of some 
night-creature through the grass, and the strange rhythmic 
long-drawn breathing which vibrates through solitary nights, 
like sleep's self made audible, emphasized the deep silence, 
while the scent of the dewy earth and drenched grass, the 
sweetness of the tall lilies, white in the summer darkness, and 


182 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


all the fragrance of green and growing things filled it with 
balm. 

Stars set, the moon had glided ghostdike away behind the 
down, a cock crowed, a fresh breeze awoke, a pale grayness 
stole into the eastern sky and chilled the stars, and still Alice 
sat statue-like at the open lattice, resolute to wrestle once for 
all to the very death with the question which so tortured her; 
resolute also to decide once for all whether she ought to accept 
or refuse the only chance of happiness life offered her, whether 
it was her duty to give life-long pain or pleasure to one whose 
happiness was dearer to her than life. 

Her face grew sharp and pinched in the gray pallor of the 
early dawn; for the inward struggle grew fiercer as the hours 
went on; the sweet deep silence which was so heljDful to her 
would soon be broken by all the voices of the woods and fields; 
the sun would soon strike upon the earth and dissipate the 
friendly veil of darkness and lay her trouble bare; she must 
decide quickly. Doubt is the most dreadful torture the soul 
can endure, especially doubt of those we love; there were mo- 
ments in that night of bitter conflict when it would have been 
comparative happiness to Alice to have her worst fears for Ed- 
ward confirmed. In that case she saw herself in imagination 
at his side, in some vague way helping and healing him; a 
seductive vision. Had he but come to her suffering, needing 
her, she must have taken him. 

Her mother’s face floated before her. Scenes from child- 
hood came back, casting strong lights and shadows on her 
father’s unworthiness and her mother’s misery. Her resolve 
was made: she would give Edward up. Then the convicion 
of his integrity darted arrow-like into her soul, and the strug- 
gle began again. Eor if he were indeed guiltless, she would 
do him a terrible injustice in refusing him. She no longer 
considered the consequences to herself; she could only think 
of what she owed to Heaven and the man who had placed his 
happiness in her hands. 

Again the cock crowed; the brooding grayness of the ap- 
proaching dawn grew more intense; a bird stirred; a sort of 
grim ghastliness fell upon everything; the tall lilies shook on 
their stems, and were lost in the blurred shadow; a perceptible 
shudder passed over the earth, and many stars vanished from 
the sky. 

Something cold touched the hand Alice laid on the window- 
ledge; it was the key of the vestry which was lent her that she 
might pass in and out of the church to play the organ. She 
took it up, and throwing a shawl over her head and shoulders. 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


183 


glided softly down the stairs, and, noiselessly sliding back the 
well-known bolts of the garden door, stole out into the gray 
garden. A lark shot up unseen into the dim sky, and broke 
the shadowy stillness with a thin strain of song; other birds 
woke and filled the air with faint, half-forlorn pipings and 
chirpings; there was a sort of trouble in the air and in their 
voices; they had not yet courage for full song — they hoped for 
the cheerful sun-rising, but were by no means sure that it 
would truly come. 

Every object was now distinct in the gray blankness which 
seemed but a mockery of life and light — distinct, and yet quite 
diti'erent to what it was in the familiar, comfortable light of 
day. The house looked ghostly with its blinded windows, it 
was so still and lifeless; every cottage had a deserted, death- 
like aspect; every chimney was smokeless; it was bard to be- 
lieve that anything human was near, and yet the thought of 
well-known faces blind with sleep beneath those thatched eaves 
intensified the solitude. 

She passed through the garden and meadow by the rick- 
yard, gathering her skirts about her to avoid the drenching 
dew, along behind the quiet cottages, and the inn with its row 
of sycamores, till she reached another village, scarcely more 
silent than that beneath the thatched roofs below — the village 
of the dead, whose narrow homes clustered even more thickly 
than the others about the hallowed walls of the ancient church. 
Eor these the sun would rise in vain, bringing no joy, nor 
any trouble or temptation, perplexity or strife. 

A golden warmth stole into the gray world as she walked 
on, and when she passed through the church-yard wicket there 
was a great change. The square tower, with its wide but- 
tresses, lost its hue of solemn gray, and all the hoary walls 
glowed rosy red; the sky was one rose, glowing most deeply 
on the horizon and paling at the zenith; the last star faded in 
the universal blush; the grass of the church-yard, the fields 
and woods, the stern gray ridge of down, the village with its 
smokeless chimneys, were all bathed in crimson radiance; the 
heart of nature was deeply stirred; the very leaves thrilled in 
the rose-light, and the birds burst into full song. 

She entered the silent, shadowy church; her light steps sent 
echoes rumbling among the heavy arches and dark roof; by 
contrast with the external rosiness, it was night within; the 
pillars gleamed ghostly in the stillness; the marble Annesleys 
praying silently on their tombs were pale shadows in hearts of 
darkness. 

The empty church always had a deep, impressive charm for 


184 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


Alice; she had often been there before to pray and meditate. 
The solemn beauty of the ancient building, its sacred associa- 
tions, the thought that for centuries those hoary walls and 
massive arches had heard nothing but holy music and words 
of prayer and praise, the solemn vows of lifer’s most sacred 
moments, words of hope for the dead, and exhortation and 
comfort for the living; all these things lifted up. her heart, 
dissipated the lower elements of life, and heightened the 
spiritual. Such light as there was in the church was gathered 
in the chancel beneath the east window, in which apostles and 
angels were beginning to live beneath the warm touches of the 
dawn. Here Alice knelt and poured out her soul in supplica- 
tion, so that it seemed as if in comparison she had never 
prayed before. 

Here she had knelt with Sibyl in their dawning womanhood 
at confirmation, and felt the majesty and meaning of a life 
linked with the divine. Here the heavenly symbols had been 
dealt to her and her adopted parents time after time; here the 
very air seemed to thrill with high resolve and holy aspiration, 
and the faces of the pictured angels, growing more distinct 
with the growing light over the altar, were full of encourage- 
ment and consolation. 

Those untiring choristers, the swallows, made their sunlit 
matins audible in the still, echoing aisles, bringing sweet asso- 
ciations of peaceful summer Sundays. All the angels and 
apostles in the east window were now distinct, their rich-hued 
raiment and aureoles glowed jewel-like in the sunshine, which 
sent long shafts of color upward into the chancel roof and 
athwart the stone arches, touching one of the silent praying 
Annesleys till his marble mail burned with warm radiance. 

A vision of a marriage rose before her. The usual worship- 
ers filled the empty church, the priest stood white-robed in tlio 
chancel, and uttered the solemn words, I charge you both as 
ye shall answer at the great and dreadful day of judgment 
— the Annesleys were there, and the Kickmans, with the un- 
seen witnesses of the spirit- world all listening, while she and 
Edward stood mute. The vision faded, the dead arose and 
thronged the air with spirit life; Paul Annesley, pale and 
troubled from his last agony, gazed upon her then, and the 
secrets of all hearts were revealed. 

When an hour had passed, she rose and left the church, her 
resolution strengthened by a solemn vow, unheard by any 
human cars save her own, which tingled at the silvery sound 
of her voice as it rang clear and lonely through the silent 
church. 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


185 


The sun had risen upon the earth when she came out into 
the fresh purity of the dewy morning; the faithful Hubert 
rose from his recumbent watch across the vestry threshold, 
and dropped quietly behind her with a look of unobtrusive 
sympathy which went to her heart; the village was still sleep- 
ing silent and smokeless in the pure sunlight, though here and 
there laborers were faring forth, heavy-footed, to their work; 
the dew lay deep on the herbage, every blade of grass was so 
weighted and studded with jewels it seemed a marvel that it 
did not break; the wine-like air was filled with stimulating 
flower-scents. Alice passed swiftly on, lifted up in heart, 
touched by the beauty and purity of the sunny morning and 
comforted by the clear singing of the birds. She paused by 
Ellen Gale^s grave, and removed some faded flowers her own 
hands had laid there, and thought of the day when she sat by 
her bedside, and Edward^s cheerful song came through the 
open lattice and stirred her so strangely. Was she wronging 
him, after all? 

Though, once- for all, she had decided not to accept his 
offered love, and with that decision peace had come, she felt 
that the terrible doubt would never be solved, but would gnaw 
her heart continually, until the day when the secrets of all 
hearts shall be revealed. She remembered his words in the 
garden the night before, and realized that nothing would move 
him from his resolve to keep his secret, whether guilty or 
guiltless. 

All was silent in Eaysh Squire^s cottage by the church-yard 
gate; no one had as yet stirred in the Golden Horse beneath, 
where the golden sunbeams were entangled in the tops of the 
sycamores; but in the meadow, where the sheep were lying 
down in expectation of a fair day, Daniel Pink was abroad 
tending his flock. The sight of the shepherd always brought 
spiritual strength to Alice; she knew more of his inward life 
than any other human being, and reverenced the simple swain 
as she reverenced no other man. A little surprised to see her 
abroad so early, he looked up in answer to her greeting with 
something of the same feeling for her that she had for him. 
Alice’s face was pale and transparent, and her eyes were full 
of spiritual fire; the shawl she had thrown about her was 
white; it seemed to the shepherd as if some pure spiritual pres- 
ence were passing before him in the quiet morning. 

She reached the garden door unseen, though the carters 
were already busy with the horses, and John Nobbs was stand- 
ing sturdy in the yard, with loud voice setting the men on to 


186 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


work, and stole unperceived through the still sleej^ing house 
and was soon in bed and asleep. 

When she woke, it was to feel a kiss on her face, and to see 
{Sibyl standing dressed by her side with the news that break- 
fast was over. 

“ Gervase sent these with liis love,^’ she added, pressing a 
bunch of freshly blown tea-roses to her burning cheek; “ he 
was sorry to have to go to business without wishing you ‘ Good- 
morning. ' 


CHAPTER V. 

A VERDICT. 

The thick-moted sunbeams of a June midday fell broadly 
through the windows of Whewell & Rickn^iPs offices, scorn- 
ing the flimsy screen of the dingy white blinds, rejoicing the 
companies of flies buzzing drowsily in their complex evolutions 
through the thick air, and making those clerks swear whose 
desks were not iri the shadow; they jioured in a broad stream 
of light into Gervase Rickman’s private room, where he sat at 
his writing-table out of their range, and commanded a view of 
the busy street beneath. 

{Sheets of paper covered with figures lay before him; he had 
been at work for an hour and more solving complex arith- 
metical problems, deduced from various documents scattered 
here and there; the final result of his calculations was evident- 
ly satisfactory, though lie looked pale and exhausted as well 
as relieved, like one just delivered from great peril. 

“ Of one thing I am quite resolved,” he said to himself, 
lifting his face from the papers and leaning back in his chair, 
‘‘ never again will I speculate with other people’s money— at 
least not in hrg^ sums — it is too risky.” 

Only two days before he had been appalled by the receipt of 
a telegram from a trusty hand in the East to the elfecL that 
the hitherto rapidly rising Chinese Chin-Luns in whitffi he had 
largely invested were about to fall heavily, and an expression 
unintelligible to any but himself at the end of the dispatch 
told him they would soon be worthless. He instantly tele- 
graphed to his broker to sell the whole of his Chinese stock; 
next ’day he received a telegram to say that the sale was etiect- 
ed at a high though lowered price. Then he breathed freely, 
satisfied at having doubled his capital, in spite of all. And 
now the morning papers announced a fall in Chin-Luns heavy 
enough to have absorbed half his invested money; to-morrow’s 


THE KEPROACH OP ANHESLEY. 


187 


quotations he knew would be lower; he had only been just in 
time. 

The Cliin-Luns were not the only perilous stocks in which 
he had speculated; they serve as a specimen of the terribly 
exciting game Gervase Eickman was playing, a game as de- 
pendent on chance as any played over green cloth, and yet, 
like those, subject to certain laws, and capable of occasionally 
yielding satisfactory results to a player of iron nerve and cool 
and steady brain. By constantly and closely watching com- 
mercial and political affairs; by dint of information which he 
managed to obtain from all sorts of unsuspected channels and 
which he never hesitateddo act upon; by an intuitive insight 
into men and affairs which amounted to genius, together with 
a great capacity for calculating and combining, and deducing 
order from chaos, and a courage that nothing could daunt, this 
hard-headed young man, resolutely following the noble maxim 
of buying in the cheapest market and selling in the dearest, 
had, in spite of many a hair-breadth escape from ruin, doubled 
and quadrupled his capital in the brief course of a few years. 
His face wore a triumphant expression as he sat at his writing- 
table and looked at the final result of the complicated net- 
work of investments which he was carrying on, suspected by 
few, and fully known to nobody. 

A newspaper lay on the table; his eye caught the leading 
points of a criminal trial recorded in the uppermost columns, 
and he smiled an indulgent, half-pitying smile, such a smile as 
a skillful artist may accord to the failure of a beginner. 
“ What a number of fools there are in the world,^^ he thought, 
“ unconscious fools, who blunder themselves into the grip of 
the law, thinking themselves capable!’^ He hastily glanced 
through the case, that of a lawyer who had speculated with 
trust-money and lost it, then he tossed the paper aside, and 
began pondering the question of reinvestments for the Chin- 
Lun funds. It really went to his heart to have to give such 
low interest to Alice Lingard after having doubled her money; 
but he could not give more than the interest legal for trust- 
money, and after all it would tjome to the same in the end; 
vvas it not all for her? He thought of others whose money had 
been the golden seed for his rich harvest, widows and orphans 
among them; and quieted certain faint qualms of what still 
remained of his conscience by reflecting that all the strictest 
justice required of him was to return them their capital with 
fair interest. It is no doubt a fine thing, he considered, for 
lawyers to manage the affairs of incapables, and take care of 
their money for them; but then lawyers must live. He was a 


188 THE REPKOACH OF ANNESLEY. 

remarkably clever young man, anti, as he frequently thought, 
it was really a great pity that talents so brilliant and a courage 
so mangificent were not employed in the direction of large 
national, even European affairs; a lawyer^s office was too nar- 
row a cell for capabilities like his, they could not expand and 
develop as they ought. 

“ Soon,^^ he reflected, if I do not break — and I loill not 
— I shall have enough. 

This saying alone proved him to be a remarkable man. 
How often does one meet with a human being who knows a 
limit to his desire for wealth, especially one who has tasted the 
fierce rapture of gambling? But Gervase Kickman was no 
money worshiper; he desired wealth only as a stepping-stone 
to power; nor was he a slave to the passion of gambling; had 
he been so, he would never have kept the cool brain necessary 
to a winner. 

“ I do wonder, Kickman, said his new partner, Mr. Daish, 
one day, that with your capacity for public life you are not 
more ambitious. 

“ Do you?^^ returned Kickman, sweetly. “ Well, it is no 
doubt a fine thing to be Mayor of Medington, but I think 
Davis will make a better mayor than I should. So Dr. Davis 
was elected to the municipal vacancy Mr. Daish wished his 
partner to fill, and Gervase Kickman saw the latter march to 
the parish church in a black silk gown trimmed with blue vel- 
vet behind the mayor in scarlet and fur, and thought how 
funny Mr. Daish’s notions of ambition were, Mr. Daish, who 
knew what an immense practice Whewell & Kickman^s was, 
so immense that, in spite of the addition of a partner to the 
firm, they were about to give up the affairs of the Gledesworth 
estate. Yet the financial crisis, or rather crises, through 
which Gervase Kickman had just passed, coming as it did so 
shortly before that day of reckoning, Alice Lingard^s twenty- 
first birthday, shook even his iron nerves, so that he rose to 
leave his office for luncheon at an unusually early hour, feel- 
ing an unwonted lassitude and distaste for work, and strolled 
quietly along the shady side of the streets till he came quite 
suddenly upon a rustic lane with a mill and bridge, under 
wiiich a clear, deep stream flowed tranquilly, shadowed by the 
green gloom of overarching trees. 

Here he rested, leaning on a rail and letting his thoughts 
wander at will with the quiet flow of the waters, as thoughts 
will wander, borne peacefully upon a passing stream. The 
water made the sole barrier between the road and an orchard 
which sloped from a gentle rise down to the verge, grassy, 


THE KEPROACH OP APTKESLEY. 189 

cool, and fresh, full of the quiet lights which fall at midday 
through summer trees, and rest upon brown trunks and green 
grass. 

But he could not find the mental repose he sought by the 
water-side; something which had passed between himself and 
Alice Lingard a day or two before came and troubled him, 
satisfactory as on the whole he considered it. 

It was the day after Edward Annesley^s visit to the Manor, 
and Gervase had ridden over in the evening, to look, he said, 
to the marking of the shorn sheep, but really to see how Alice, 
whom he had missed in the morning, was faring. 

Of late Alice had drawn closer to him, completely set at rest 
by the perfect way in which he cloaked the true nature of his 
feelings toward her, and referring to him in every little doubt 
and difficulty as she did to no one else. Much as she loved 
her adopted father and mother, she relied little upon them; her 
nature was stronger than theirs, and she unconsciously re- 
garded herself as a stay to them, and did not look to them for 
support. Sibyl was her companion and beloved sister, but a 
sister, however dear, is not a brother, which Gervase was and 
l^roved himself in a thousand unobtrusive ways. 

He told Sibyl that he wanted to be alone with Alice that 
evening, and Sibyl, accustomed to confer privately with Ifim 
herself, thought this perfectly natural; she therefore soon 
found an excuse for leaving them to the quiet stroll Gervase 
proposed, and he and Alice walked on tranquilly alone together 
in the cool hush of the evening. 

“ What is it?^^ he asked, quietly, when their desultory talk 
had come to an end, and they were resting half-way up the 
down against a gate. 

Alice did not answer for a few minutes, but gazed on silent- 
ly at the house and church sleeping beneath them in the last 
rays of evening. 

“ Wouldn^t it be a relief to speak?^^ he continued, after a 
little. “ You are pale and worn, you look as if you had had 
no sleep; something is worrying you.^^ 

“ Yes, she replied, “you read one too well, Gervase; 1 
am worried, but— no matter. It will pass.'’^ 

He considered her thoughtfully for a little while, drawing 
his inferences. “ A girl of your age,^^ he continued, “ ought 
to have no worries. Perhaps, after all, it is something that 
two words would set right. 

“ No,^^ she replied, “nothing will ever set this right. 
Slow tears rose to her eyes, and fell on the rough wood of the 
gate on which her arms rested, and the tears went to his heart. 


190 THE KEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 

“ Come;, my dear child/^ he said, almost roughly, “ this 
won’t do. This is not like you, Alice. ” 

Oh, Gervase!” she cried, “ you were always a good brother 
to me,^’ and she turned to him and bent her head till her fore- 
head touched his shoulder and rested there. 

He summoned ail his iron strength to resist the feelings 
stirred by that light touch; to yield now to one impulse would 
be fatal, the impulse to fold the graceful burden stayed thus 
lightly upon him to his heart, and though he trembled slight- 
ly he did not move a muscle. It was but a moment that Alice 
leaned against the strong arm, feeling an indescribable acces- 
sion of moral support from the momentary contact, then she 
lifted her head, and the wild throbbing within him, of which 
she was so unconscious, quieted down, and Gervase’s invinci- 
ble will resumed its undisputed sway. 

She looked up in his face with child-like confidence, and 
asked herself why she should bear a crushing burden alone, 
when she had so true and strong a friend to share it with her; 
Gervase answered her appealing look with a reassuring smile. 

“ I have no brother of my own,” she continued, “ and 
neither fa' her nor mother to consult, and I have had to make 
a* decision — and — I am not quite sure if I have done right.” 

She had done it, then ; a weight was lifted off his heart, and 
he smiled more paternally than before. 

“ My dear child,” he returned, “ I have no doubt that you 
have acted wisely and well, but the wisest of us need a lit ye 
friendly counsel at times.” 

“And besides the confidence I have in you,” she added, 
“ there is no one so fitted by circumstances to advise me upon 
this subject.” 

f “No? That is a good thing. ” 

“ Gervase,” she said, in the low tones of intense feeling, 
“ 1 was under the trees by the Doubs that afternoon — I had 
been asleep. I overheard what you and Edward Annesley 

Gervase was startled for a moment from his self-control; all 
the blood rushed to his heart and he gazed half terrified upon 
her, wondering what she could have heard, and trying to re- 
call the exact circumstances of their meeting and the words of 
the conversation. 

“ 1 heard your promise,” she continued, “ and I will not 
ask you to break it, but I will ask you this. Because of 
what occurred that day, and for no other reason, I refused to- 
day to marry Edward Annesley. Was I right?” 

He did not answer for awhile; all the sunny, peaceful fields 


THE EEPKOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


191 


whirled before his eyes, his brain throbbed. Had he known 
that she would put this terribly direct question to him he would 
never have risked being alone with her. He looked at her 
earnest face, worn by inward suffering and noble with pure 
and loyal feeling, and felt that never before had she been so 
dear to him as now, while she was thus guilelessly confiding to 
his ears her love for another man. In a dim way he realized 
the depth and beauty of that love, such a love as he could 
never hope to win. He knew that he held Alicea’s happiness in 
his hands, that the whole of her future life depended upon the 
next words he should say, and his heart was rent asunder with 
conflicting feelings. It would be sweet to make her happy, to 
see her face lighten and brighten and break into perfect joy at 
his words; that would be better than any more selfish satisfac- 
tion that might come from making her his own. 

“ Oh, Alice he faltered, lifted above himself for a mo- 
ment by the purifying passion of his love, oblivious of self, 
desiring nothing but the good of the guileless being whose 
moral beauty had so conquered him, “ Alice 

Yet he paused, true to his cautious character, before yield- 
ing to his higher nature, and irrevocably changing the course 
of their lives, and the pause, as such pauses are, was fatal. 
All his life, with its aims, ambitions and strong purposes, 
flashed before him in a moment of time — for the Tempter 
exercises a strong necromancy over those who palter with their 
better impulses, and crushes a life-time of thought and feeling 
into a moment — he thought with poignant self-pity of the long 
years during which. his heart had been wasting in patient love 
for Alice, and he shuddered to think how black and unbear- 
able a future without her would be. Then the second strong 
feeling of his heart, his love for Sibyl, appealed to him along 
with more selfish passions; all her life, so closely bound up in 
his own, came before him from her babyhood till now, and 
that subtle something, which twists everything within us to 
selfish ends, and justifies our evil wishes, persuaded him that 
SibyTs interests rather than his own were at stake. He re- 
called his sorrow when she lay as a child at the point of death, 
and they told him she must die; he remembered how he 
prayed, as he never prayed before or since — prayer was a long- 
disused habit with him — how he nursed her, feeling as if his 
strong affection had wrested her from the jaws of death. He 
thought with tender pride of her beauty and talents, and he 
thought of her face the evening before, when she looked upon 
Edward in his trouble; Sibyl must be happy at any cost. So 
he resolved. 


192 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY, 


Alice iiitorprctecl hia apparent agitation with a sinking heart; 
she scarcely now needed words to confirm her worst fears. 

“ Was I right?^^ she repeated. 

There was a singing in his ears, his lips were so dry that he 
could scarcely speak; he paused again, and at last said in a 
voice that sounded strange and harsh to both of them, “ Quite 
right. 

Alice made no reply, but the look in her face was one he 
never forgot, never could forget, and the tones of his own voice 
rang hauntingly in the ears of his memory’long after, lowly as 
they were spoken. “ Quite right, echoed the harsh voice of 
the corn-crake in the evening stillness. Quite right cawed 
the long string of rooks proceeding solemnly homeward, dark 
specks against the pure sky. “ Quite right,^^ tinkled the bells 
of the browsing sheep on the down above. “ Quite right, 
murmured the rhythmic beat of his own heart, till the words, 
simple and few as they were, became meaningless by repeti- 
tion, and yet more dreadful. To Alice, resting on the gate, 
with bowed head and averted face, they were the final knell 
of all that made life dear. 

After some minutes of painful silence, Alice lifted her head, 
and the rose-light of the setting sun struck full upon the 
marble calm of her face, enhancing and still further spiritual- 
izing its already spiritual beauty. 

“ Dear Gervase,^^ she said, with the indescribable smile 
which comes from the depths of sufiering, “you will never 
again refer to this.-’^ 

“ Never again, he murmured. 

“ Shall we go just to the crest of thji hill?^^ she added; and 
they strolled tranquilly on, occasionally talking upon homely, 
trivial subjects. 

As this scene recurred to Gervase in the noonday shadows . 
by the cool stream, with Aliceas sorrow-stricken face seeming 
to gaze from the water^s green depths, and his own words, 

“ Qmte right, ringing, through the chambers of his memory, 
he felt that it had shaken him even more than the anxiety of 
the last few days, severe as that had been. Had he not escaped 
that danger, he would have had an agreeable birthday present 
to give Alice in the shape of a blank check representing the 
whole of her fortune, together with the appearance of his own 
name in the gazette; but he was too well used to narrow es- 
capes and too sane of mind to dwell upon a past danger. The 
thought of the sulfering he had inflicted upon her was another 
thing; it haunted him and refused to set him free, it came be- 
tween him and his work; it spoiled his splendid nerve and 


THE EEPllOACH OF ANKESI/EY. 


103 


daunted his magnificent audacity. When the vision of Aliceas 
sorrowful face became too insistent, he summoned another, 
that of Sibyl in the garden, gazing upon EdwarcFs gloom. If 
he remembered too keenly the light pressure of Aliceas brow 
on his shoulder when she sought counsel and comfort of him, 
he recalled the evening, more than a year ago, of Reginald 
Annesley^s funeral, and pictured the sweet face of Sibyl, wet 
with tears, when he asked what ailed her, knowing only too 
well, and she replied, that his music was too mournful. Dear 
little Sibyl! How was it possible to see her and not love her? 

There was little comfort to be got out of the green coolness 
by the mill-stream that day, and after a brief pause there, he 
turned, and retracing his steps through the lane, emerged into 
the broad sunshine and comparative bustle of the High Street, 
down the shadiest side of which he passed slowly till he came 
to Mrs. Annesley’s house, shrouded in its cool green veil of 
Virginia creeper, and presenting a refreshing contrast to the 
baked red bricks and glaring stucco of the houses on either 
side of it. 

Here he crossed over into the sunshine, just as the door 
opened and the well-known figure of the Vicar of Medington 
issued from it and paused at the foot of the steps. 

‘‘ Are you going in, Mr. Rickman?’"’ the doctor asked, 
while the servant waited, holding the door opened. “You 
will find dear Mrs. Annesley brave and patient as usual. Such 
a truly religious woman! When one thinks what she has gone 
through, one can but wonder and admire.” 

“ Yes,” returned Gervase, “ she has gone through a good 
deal, poor woman!” 

“She forgets her own trouble in the sorrows of others,” 
continued the doctor. “ I did but mention the case of that 
poor Jones who was killed by the breaking of a crane on the 
quay last week, leaving a widow and seven children — these 
poor fellows invariably leave seven children, in obedience, I 
suppose, to some occult law — and she immediately gave me a 
check for twenty pounds, and bid me get up a subscription to 
make a fund for them; so I suppose I must,” he added, with 
an ingenuous sigh; “ but I should not, I confess, have done it 
without her generous example. Warm, is it not?” 

“Stay, doctor,” replied Gervase, detaining him while he 
fished a sovereign from his waistcoat pocket, “ let me add my 
mite. 1 am a poor man, though I have not as yet emulated 
poor Jones in giving seven hostages to fortune, or it should be 
more. 1 hope you will let the firm add further to your list.” 

7 


104 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


“Charming young man/'’ reflected the doctor, going off 
with his booty. “ What a pity his politics are so pronounced I” 
“Hang the old fellow!’^ muttered Gervase, going u]:) the 
steps. “That was a cunning way of begging. These parsons 
are up to every dodge under the sun to get at one’s pockets.” 

He turned as he entered the house, and nodded to a shabby 
old countryman, half farmer, half laborer, who was slouching 
by on the other side of the street, and thought what a narrow 
escape that old man had just had from ending his days in the 
work-house, since his savings would have vanished along with 
Alice Lingard’s inheritance had the crisis he had just success- 
fully passed proved fatal. 


CHAPTER VI. 

PREDICTIONS. 

Mrs. Annesley, more majestic than ever in her heavy 
crape draperies in the cool gloom of her solitary room, received 
her guest with mournful benignity. 

“ How good of you to come tc a poor lonely old woman!” 
she said. “You know how it cheers me when you drop in 
to share my solitary meal.” 

“ A miserable bachelor is only too glacl to get” — he was 
just going to say “ a first-rate luncheon,” but happily pulled 
himself up. in time to substitute “ congenial society, above all 
ladies’ society, with his meals.” . 

“ Oh, you have no lack of ladies’ society!” she said, with a 
pleased smile. “ When were you last at Arden, and how did 
you find them all?” 

“ Perfectly well, thank you, and the roses coming well into 
bloom. They talked of sending you some in a day or two. 1 
can spare less and less time for home now.” 

“ So busy? You were right about a certain document, Ger- 
vase. I have had it drawn up and duly signed and witnessed, 
and there it is for your perusal.” And she took out a pai)er 
that he knew to be her will. 

“Thank you,” he replied, smiling. “1 need not see it. 
If it was drawn up by Pergament, as L advised, it is sure to be 
in order. ” 

“ You don’t care, then, to know what a lonely old woman 
designs for you after her death?” she returned, reproachfully. 

“I can’t endure to think of such a contingency,” he said, 
earnestly. “Poor as I am, I shall regret the much-needed 
money that comes to me from that source. ” 

“ Gervase,” said Mrs. Annesley, with apparent irrelevance. 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


195 


“ what is this 1 hear of Edward Annesley’s discredit with his 
brother officers? Is it true that in consequence of certain 
scandals he will have to leave the service?” 

“ It is true that he has been advised to do so, but he has not 
been officially recommended to resign,” replied Gervase. 

Mrs. Annesley looked disappointed, and knitted her stern 
brows in silent thought. . 

“ I can not imagine,” pursued Gervase, “ how these rumors 
get about. ” And he looked searchingly from under his down- 
cast eyelids at the severe face, which broke into a celestial smile 
before his furtive gaze. 

“ No,” she returned, sweetly, “nor can I. But I believe 
in a just Heaven, Gervase; and 1 know that retribution, sooner 
or later, always overtakes the guilty.” 

“Ah!” he murmured, with dubious meaning. He was 
thinking of the letter his quick eye had perceived on the writ- 
ing-table when he came in. It was a thick letter, addressed 
to Mrs. Markham. Mrs. Markham, he knew, was not only 
an old and intimate friend of Mrs. Amiesley’s, but she was also 
the mother-in-law of Colonel Disney, Edward Annesley^s com- 
manding officer. That accounted for a good deal. Gervase 
Rickman possessed some imagination; he readily pictured Mrs. 
Annesley detailing the circumstances of her son^s death and 
her own conjectures respecting it in long and confidential re- 
citals to Mrs. Markham, whose sympathy with her bereaved 
friend would no doubt be profound, and concluding every con- 
fidence with the strictest injunctions to secrecy. He imagined 
Mrs. Markham burdened with the weight of so delightfully 
scandalous a secret, recounting it in a moment of expansion, 
under vows of strictest secrecy, and by no means to the 
diminution of the scandal, to her daughter, Mrs. Disney. He 
could see the two ladies gloating over the narrative; the shaken 
heads, the exclamations, the uplifted hands, the repeated in- 
junction, “ My dear, above all, never breathe a syllable to 
your husband,” sequent upon which injunction he of course 
saw Mrs. Disney burning for a moment of conjugal confidence, 
when she would transfer the whole of the recital to the bosom 
of the colonel, with the same solemn injunctions to secrecy. 
Then in his mind’s eye he saw this officer looking askance at 
Edward, and unconsciously treating him with less cordiality 
than usual. One day, perhaps. Colonel Disney would say to 
some one, “ Wasn’t there something rather queer about Paul 
Annesley’s death? Does anybody remember the newspaper 
reports?” That officer would say to another, “ There was 
something very fishy about Paul Annesley’s death. It hap- 


196 THE tlEPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 

pened abroad, and was kept out of the English papers, you 
know — hushed up. It was unlucky for our Annesley that he 
was on the spot,'’^ he might add. 

“ It was precious lucky for Annesley that his cousin got 
himself pushed over the precipice, "" perhaps his audience would 
say on a subsequent occasion. 

“ And what had Ned Annesley to do with it?'^ another 
hearer might say; “ it is to be hoped he didn't push him over- 
board. It must be awfully tempting to a man's next heir to 
find himself just behind him at the edge of a crevasse. An 
accidental push, and down the fellow goes, and you get the 
estate. Shocking accident, papers say; young man of immense 
property; all goes to a distant cousin." 

“ It wasn't a crevasse. Smith," another man would object, 
“it was on a cliff by some river in France. Perhaps the 
Annesleys were larking and one pushed the other over. It 
was unlucky for our man that *the rich one went overboard. 
He doesn't look like a fellow with something on his con- 
science." 

“ He does look like a fellow with a guilty secret." 

“ And how did they get it hushed up?" 

“ Easy enough on the Continent. Bribe the officials." 

“ There was an account of it in the ‘ Times,' if you remem- 
ber, last autumn. Struck me at the time as a precious queer 
story. I must say that Annesley has never been the same man 
since. He wasn’t a bad lot before." 

“ Oh! it is only because he is rich." 

“ My dear fellow, money never spoils a man's temper or 
makes him look as if ho had baked his grandfather. It's the 
want of it makes a fellow swear and cut up rough. It's a bad 
conscience with Annesley, that's why he looks so glum." 

“ It's the family ghost. They say every Annesley who 
comes into the property is haunted, and either goes mad or 
hangs himself." 

“ You've got hold of the wrong end of the story. It isn't a 
ghost, it's a curse; every Annesley who gets Gledes worth comes 
to grief. Reginald Annesley of the Hussars was killed ele- 
phant-hunting — or pig-sticking, wasn't it? his father went 
mad and died. Paul Annesley took this unlucky step over 
the cliff, and goodness knows what will happen to Ned Annes- 
ley; any way, he's in for a bad thing." 

All this Gervase Rickman imagined, and much more, hit- 
ting, with the instinct of creative genius, the core of the literal 
truth. He saw files of, last autumn's papers consulted and 
discussed, and guessed the position his own name would occupy 


THE KEPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 197 

in the general gossip, when disinterred from the brief narra- 
tive. He understood, further, much that had hitherto been 
dark to him respecting the spread of rumor in that part of the 
world, fitting little bits of information together, and supplying 
the gap with clever inductions till he had a fair chain of evi- 
dence. He remembered an observation of the vicar’s to the 
effect that Mrs. .Annesley was a deeply W’onged woman and 
knew how to forgive, and this observation was suggestive. 

“ I conclude,” continued Mrs. Annesley, ignorant of what 
was passing through the mind of the thoughtful and clever 
young man before her, “ that Edward Annesley has sent in 
his papers. ” 

Not at all,” returned Eickman, with a subtle inflection of 
triumph in his accent; “ he means to live it down, he says.” 

“It is the first time, Mr. Eickman,” she replied, with an 
angry glitter in her eye, “ that an Annesley has preferred his 
convenience to his honor. There are people who are beneath 
scorn. Pardon me, I forgot that 1 was speaking of your 
friend.’’ 

“ Of my father’s friend and landlord, and my employer,” 
he returned, tranquilly. 

“ And Alice Lingard’s lover,” she added, with a glance of 
disdainful anger. 

“ Her rejected suitor,” he corrected, with a curious smile. 

“ Eejected? Are you certain?” she asked, eagerly. 

“ Perfectly. We need fear no more from that quarter. He 
was sent off for good and all three days ago.” 

“ Heaven is just,” observed Mrs. Annesley, with pious 
fervor. 

“Exactly,” replied Gwvase, absently. He was thinking 
what a clever woman Mrs. Annesley was; it seemed almost a 
pity she had not come into the world thirty years later, such 
a woman would indeed be a helpmate for him. He was not 
sure that she had not been a little too clever for him; he had 
not intended the Annesley scandal to go so far, and his fertile 
brain was not yet prepared with a scheme for checking it. 

“ You probably have not fully considered the risk you run 
in being associated with that man,” she continued. 

“ And what if 1 had?” he replied; “ a poor man with bread 
to earn can not be so overnice. Besides, as you know, we give 
up the stewardship on quarter-day.” 

“ And still receive him at your house?” 

“ Pardon me. My father still receives him at his house,” 
he corrected, sighing a little, for he felt that he had a difficult 
and delicate part to play, in preserving friendly relations with 


198 


THE REPROACH OP AHHESLEY. 


both this stern and resolute woman '‘and the man she hated so 
bitterly. He thought too with some apprehension of the ex- 
treme difficulty of managing with such dexterity as t8 separate 
Edward from Alice, and at the same time throw him into 
Sibyl’s society; he was beginning to fear, besides, that Ed- 
ward’s reputation was almost too seriously damaged for Sibyl’s 
marriage with him to be a success. He looked at the rigid 
lips of the hard woman sitting opposite him, and suspected 
that his iron will and subtle brain had been matched, if not 
overmatched, and mentally indorsed the truth of Eaysh Squire’s 
verdict upon Mrs. Annesley, ‘‘ You can’t nowhow get upzides 
with she.” But it was importanl? that he should get upsides 
with ” Mrs. Annesley, and he determined to do so, not know- 
ing the extent to which she was turning him inside out. 

Luncheon was announced while his mind was occupied with 
these reflections, and the conversation was interrupted — not 
disagreeably to this unfortunate and deeply perplexed child of 
genius — for he was fagged and hungry, and always knew how 
to appreciate an excellent meal, daintily set off with rich and 
tasteful appointments; nor did he fail to appreciate the state 
Mrs. Annesley affected since her son’s death. This event had 
given her an income quite out of proportion to the house in the 
street of a country town, which she chose to occupy, neverthe- 
less, since it was her own, and since her position, spite of its 
woful diminution now that she was no longer the mother of 
the unmarried Annesley of Gledes worth, was still good enough 
to enable her to live on in Medington without loss of considera- 
tion. Gervase had always felt that he was born for a more 
brilliant sjffiere than that he occupied; Mrs. Annesley’s com- 
plicated cookery, with Frenchified frames, was only a suitable 
tribute to a man so evidently intended by nature for a lofty 
destiny, and he listened to Mrs. Annesley’s long grace with 
the inward reflection that the meal justified it, and com- 
placently refreshed his inner man to the accompaniment of his 
hostess’s elegant small talk, glad to be excused the more diffi- 
cult topics the servant’s presence had put aside. 

He was sorry when they were alone again, and Mrs. Annes- 
ley returned to the charge. 

I could never understand,” she said, “ how you could 
bring yourself to act with or under that man, after what you 
saw in the Jura. You have assured me so many times that 
what you then actually witnessed is insufficient evidence to 
base a trial ujoon. ” 

“ Hear Mrs. Annesley, need I assure you again? Why re- 
vive a topic that must be so especially painful to you?” 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


199 


My young friend, do you suppose that topic is ever absent 
from my mind?'" she returned in a deep voice, with a keen, 
cold glaifte. 

“ 1 suppose," reflected the unfortunate young man, “ that 
you are an awful old woman, and that I had better, after all, 
have had nothing to do with you." But, aloud, he said some- 
thing about a mother's bereavement being perpetual, at which 
Mrs. Annesley applied her handkerchief daintily to each side 
of her nose, and murmured that his sympathy was one of the 
few solaces left to a forlorn widow. 

“ You told him," she added, replacing the handkerchief in 
her pocket with a prompt return to her business-like manner, 
“ that your business had become too large and important to 
make it worth your while to conduct his affairs?" 

‘‘ Yes, and it was true; we can do very well without the 
Gledesworth affairs. T had thought of giving it to Daish, but 
he has enough to do without. Daish is a very fair man of 
business; wholesomely dense in a way, but understands when 
directed; the very man to be under a master." 

“ My dear Gervase, you take a new partner, and refuse im- 
portant business, and have branch offices in half a dozen towns; 
that all hangs excellently together, and Edward Annesley 
might believe you, if he were less of a fool than he is. But 
what does not fit is the fact that you are constantly bewailing 
your poverty." 

Gervase explained that poverty is a relative term, and de- 
pends upon the relation of a man's needs to his possessions. 
“ The fact is," he said, in conclusion, “ I want money — a 
great deal of money. No one suspects what my aims really are, 
but your friendship, dear Mrs. Annesley, has always been so 
perfect, and you have so much sympathy with whatever soars 
above the common, that I feel moved to confide in you, the 
more so as your influence is great, and may materially aid 
me. " 

He spoke with a hesitating, almost timid air, like a man 
who longs to make a confidence but needs some encouragement 
to bring him to the point. Mrs. Annesley's piercing gaze was 
directed upon his downcast intellectual face; she was wonder- 
ing to what extent he was lying, as indeed she usually did while 
conferring with him. 

My influence," she echoed, with a melancholy accent, 
“ what influence can a forlorn and childless widow such as I 
am have? Do not mock my affliction, dear Gervase. 7 am 
not the mother of Annesley of Gledesworth/' and the hand- 


200 THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 

kerchief once more appeared, andVas again daintily pressed 
to each side of Mrs. Annesley’s finely formed nose. 

“ Nevertheless/^ returned Gervase, who knew exq^jtly what 
she wanted him to say, “ yon have far more influence than the 
lady who occupies that position. Influence depends more than 
is commonly supposed upon force of character, 1 don^t think 
you quite know the extent to which Mrs. Annesley of Meding- 
ton is looked up to, and the great sympathy which her sorrows 
inspire. 

She knew that he was fibbing and yet she liked it; flattery 
is so essential to some natures that they are almost indiflerent 
to its truth or falsehood so long as incense of some kind is 
offered them. She therefore replied that, though conscious of 
her own impotence, she was most willing to further her dear 
friend^s views as far as she could, and begged him, if it would 
be the slightest solace to him, to confide his aims to her moth- 
erly breast. And Gervase, knowing that her genius for in- 
trigue gave her an influence more potent in the furtherance of 
his purposes than that of rank or wealth, and being unusually 
expansive on account of the wine he had taken to quiet his 
troubled mind, replied: 

‘‘ I am ambitious. I do not intend to remain an attorney in 
a country town long.^^ 

“ Your talents are wasted in such a sphere, she replied; 
“ there is no doubt of that. But to what do you mean to 
rise?^^ 

His ambition had always inspired her with admiration, and’ 
the thought that she might bring a brilliant young man into 
public notice was most pleasing to her, possessing the instinct 
of patronage to such an unusual degree as she did. 

“ I intend,'^ he replied, gazing with a preoccupied air 
straight before him, ‘‘ tp rule England, if not Europe. 

The quiet, matter-of-fact air with which he uttered this 
large resolve startled Mrs. Annesley, and her eyes flashed with 
unfeigned admiration. 

“ You aim high,^^ she replied, almost breathlessly. 

“Whynot?’^ he returned, coolly; “with a resolute pur- 
pose, a high aim is as easily achieved as a low one. ’' 

Mrs. Annesley was too startled to be amused at the idea of 
a young country lawyer purposing to govern his country, if 
not the world at large, hi this off-hand manner; she saw no 
bathos in his observations, perhaps in her momentary bewil- 
derment she had a vague notion that Gervase might send her 
straightway to the Tower if she incurred liis displeasure; she 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 201 

could only ask him, with unusual meekness, how he meant to 
begin. 

“ First, 1 must get money, he replied; “ then I must get 
a seat in Parliament. .The rest, he added, smiling with a 
sudden consciousness of the ridiculous side of his pretensions, 
“will follow. 

Yet though he had too wholesome a sense of humor not to 
be amused at his large assertion, he fully meant it, and Mrs. 
Annesley, looking silently and thoughtfully upon his resolute 
countenance, which was now more than usually alight with 
intellect, and pondering upon the oratorical gifts he was known 
to possess, upon his strength of will, his industry, his learn- 
ing, his genius for affairs, and his knowledge of human char- 
acter, realized all at once that a born statesman was sitting at 
her table, and that, though friendless and unknown as he was, 
he might never rule England, much less Europe, to do which 
he would have, as he afterward informed her, to transform 
England to a great extent, he would probably rise to a cred- 
itable position in public life. Euling England might be but a 
vaunt, yet not wholly an idle one; it was like the inarshaFs 
baton in the knapsack of the republican soldier, or the wool- 
sack in the future of the young barrister, symbol and aim of 
the ambition without which men never rise above mediocrity. 

She knew him to be unscrupulous, and this in her eyes was 
a further guarantee of his success. She did not believe with 
Alice Lingard, that honor and honesty are the only permanent 
bases of political as of personal greatness, and that, though an 
ambitious and unscrupulous genius may achieve the highest 
eminence, such a one is almost certain to fall. 

“ Come into the garden, she said when she had recovered 
from her surprise, “ and tell me all about it. And they went 
out and strolled in the shade of the lime-trees for a sunny half 
hour, while Gervase unfolded the details of his immediate 
plans and spoke of the probability of the borough of Meding- 
ton falling vacant at no distant date, and of the desirability of 
his finances being in a condition for him to contest it. Then 
Mrs. Annesley promised him definite financial as well as per- 
sonal aid, and he knew that neither was to be despised. And 
although he did not impart his ambitious plans as yet to any 
one else, he knew that the same occult powers which had 
affixed a stigma to Edward Annesley, could associate his name 
with a predicted success which might fulfill itself. He was 
also aware that Mrs. Annesley had latterly renewed her ac- 
quaintance with her" aristocratic connections, some of whom 


202 


THE EEPKOAOH OF AHHESLEY. 


were distinguished both in the world of society and in that of 
politics. 

He returned to his office in high spirits; he knew that Mrs. 
Annesley was far too dangerous as a possible foe, not to be 
made a certain friend, and in confiding in her and throwing 
himself upon her, he had secured her on his side for life; he 
would now be in some sort her own creation, so he had per- 
suaded her. 

The very danger of the crisis through which he had just 
passed increased his confidence in that vague something which 
he named his destiny. All men are illogical, especially those 
who make a point of being logical and following nothing but 
the light of reason, and who think to conquer circumstance by 
their own unaided will. Gervase, therefore, who regarded 
religion as the malady of undeveloped minds, and professed to 
be able to mold his own fate and that of others by the sole 
power of his purpose, was a firm believer in his lucky destiny, 
and was constantly tormenting himself with fears lest that 
capricious divinity should one day vere round and persecute 
him, as it had hitherto favored him. 

Having seated himself at his desk that afternoon, and being 
much occupied with thoughts of his continued good luck, he 
determined to consult an oracle in which he believed as 
fervently as any girl believes in the saints she calls upon by the 
way-side cross. He opened a penknife with a long, fine blade, 
and poised it carefully in his hand with the point directed to 
the wall opposite him. While doing this, his confidential 
clerk knocked at the door; but he did not answer, he con- 
tinued gazing with an intent, anxious gaze upon a spot of color 
in the pattern of the wall-paper. The clerk then made the 
preconcerted signal denoting urgency in a series of taps on the 
door; still no reply, Gervase’s hand trembled slightly and his 
face was pale; he shot the knife dart-like at the spot on the 
wall, and instantly got up and followed it, and smiled with 
relief when he found the blade quivering in the very center of 
the pattern. 

Three times the rite was performed, each time with increas- 
ing trepidation; while the clerk, who heard his footsteps, 
coughed an impatient cough and repeated that signal of 
urgency. When the blade quivered the third time in the same 
spot, the tension of the young man ’s features relaxed, he took 
the knife and shut it with a tranquil air, saying inwardly that 
he was now sure of success, and resuming his seat, he bid the 
clerk enter in his usual manner. It was a favorite axiom of 
his that all men are fools in some respects. 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY, 


203 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDES WORTH. 

Wheh Edward Annesley reached home at the end of his 
moonlight ^’ide after the discouraging reception of his suit by 
Alice, he went to., bed and to sleep in the most unromantic 
fashion, and rose refreshed next morning to eat a hearty 
breakfast. 

After breakfast, he took a cigar and went round the stables, 
and listened to an account of the symptoms of his sister^s rid- 
ing-horse, and, having attentively examined the creature, 
prescribed for it; then he carefully felt the legs of a carriage- 
horse, and decided that there was nothing the matter but 
swelling from insufficient exercise, and considered other im- 
portant stable matters, smoking with apparent enjoyment all 
the time. 

Then he passed an hour in his mother^s sitting-room, dis- 
cussing matters of business, looking over the accounts of one 
of his brothers, who was not yet able to stand on his own 
foundation, but making no allusion to what had occurred at 
Arden the day before, beyond saying that he had passed the 
evening at the Manor. 

After this he strolled through the park down to a little cove, 
surrounded by tall forest trees, growing right down to the 
water^s edge, where there was a tiny pier and bathing-stage 
and a boat-house, and, stepping into a little boat, sculled out 
seaward. Then his face became thoughtful, and he began to 
reflect on what had passed in the garden th% evening before. 

Alice was friendly toward him, and more than kind, as be- 
came her nature; but she did not love him, and he did not 
think he could ever win her love. Paul’s untimely fate had 
surrounded him with a halo of tenderness; there was a pathos, 
in his sudden deatli which, Edward decided, would make Alice 
cling to his memory as to that of a canonized saint. 

Yet the fact that Alice besought him to tell the secret of 
his part in that death, showed that she entertained at least 
some thought of accepting his proposals, though the fact that 
she did not trust him indicated conclusively that she did not, 
and probably never would love him. A love without trust 
could not be based upon the reverent perception of moral 
beauty, which was the foundation of his own love. And it 
was not so very unreasonable that she should wish him to ex- 
plain the history of that afternoon; he saw clearly that whether 


204 


Tllii KEPKOACH OP ANNESLEY. 


she would finally grow to love him or not, she would most cer- 
tainly never accept his addresses until the mystery was cleared 
up. That would be the first step. 

As he sculled swiftly over the calm waters, the blue heaven 
above him and the blue sea beneath, Aliceas face rose before 
him, and the tones of her voice grew upon his ear, and he felt 
how deeply he loved her and how impossible it wa% to be hap- 
py without her. If he could not win her, he would make no 
unmanly moan, but the glory of his life would be gone. After 
the keenness of the disappointment had worn oil, he might 
even find some good, lovable woman to whom he would be a 
good husband, and who would be a contented wife; but he 
would never be really happy, he would have missed the best 
things in life; he even doubted if he could so far conquer his 
feelings as to marry. As he thought this, seeing Aliceas face, 
in imagination and recalling the charm of her presence, tears 
rose to his eyes and dimmed the blue vision of sea and sky be- 
fore him, and it came into his mind that it would be worth 
doing anything to win her. Should he yield to her wishes and 
tell her all, taking the risk of what might follow? 

So he pondered for a long time, sculling more and more 
rapidly in the stress of this suggestion, oblivious of the hot 
sunshine, until the persjDiration streamed from his face, while 
the green shore lessened in the distance, and he was near being 
run down by a yacht steaming along at high speed. 

After all, he had a right to win her; there was no justice in 
frustrating the happiess of his life because Paul Annesley 
could have no more earthly enjoymenf, and was it not a hap- 
pier fate for Alice to love a living man than a dead one? He 
called up a vision»of Alice wooed and won, living a tranquil 
and useful life by his side. He thought how happy he would 
make her, surrounding her with tenderest love, and protecting 
her from every trouble; honor and peace would wait upon her 
steps in the happy home he would give her, and a thousand 
sweet domestic joys would spring up and blossom in her path. 
But all this only if she loved him; yet why should she not? 
The picture was so sweet that he dwelt upon it long, so long 
that at last it was beginning to confuse his sense of right. He 
imagined himself telling her the whole story, and tried to 
think how she would bear it. He thought he saw horror com- 
ing into her eyes as she listened, and anguish clouding her face 
—and would that be all? No; if he judged her rightly, some- 
thing more would come between them — anger and scorn. She 
would never forgive him, as he could never forgive himself. 

Then the current of his thoughts turned; he saw a pitying 


THE REPROACH OF ANFTESLEY. 


205 


tenderness stealing into her face, and found himself forgiven 
for his lovers sake, and perhaps, when the anguish had spent 
itself, loved at last. At this thought the temptation to tell 
all became urgent. It was so hard to let her go without 
further efforts to win her. But she did not trust him; could 
she ever love him? What strange infatuation his had been, 
when first he saw and loved her and thought — preposterous 
thought — that his love was returned. It must have been pure 
imagination, because after he knew of PauFs claims she had 
seemed so different and so distant; doubtless she had never 
been anything but distant, only his wishes had made him fancy 
that she inclined to him. Those few bright days at Arden 
were but days stolen from a fooPs paradise, the only paradise, 
he thought, with unwonted bitterness, men ever enjoy in this 
perverted and perverse earth. 

It was pleasant, nevertheless, to remember the brief fooPs 
paradise, which seemed so long and so full of events. He re- 
called their discussions and arguments upon every conceivable 
topic, and all the hints of character brought out by trivial 
events. Once they were talking of “ Vanity Fair,'’^ and espe- 
cially of that matchless creature, Becky Sharp, and Alice said 
that had she been Amelia, she could have forgiven Becky 
everything but that one crowning injury of revealing George 
Osborne^s infidelity. “ It was like killing a soul,'’^ she said, 
“ for she destroyed the ideal of a life-time. 

The air seemed still to vibrate with the tones of her voice; 
he remembered the flutter of a ribbon on her dress when she 
spoke^ 

No more fooPs paradises for Edward Annesley, only the 
stern facts of life and a stout wrestling with circumstances re- 
mained for him, as perhaps was fitting for a tough fellow able 
to take his full share of hard knocks. 

“ I will never tell her,^^ he said, aloud, though no one heard 
but the waves and the sea-birds skimming above them, and 
the light breeze which sprung up and invited him to step his 
tiny mast and hoist his sail, and flit over the waters in emula- 
tion of the gulls. While he sped before the wind, pursuing 
these reflections, he thought that the best thing in most lives 
might after all be a happy memory of an untarnished ideal. 

The sun had turned, and was already far down the western 
slope, when the woods and meadows around Gledesworth came 
in sight again, and he sculled into the cove, put the little boaPs 
head straight for the landing-place, and sprung out the mo- 
ment the keel ground the shingle. The serene calm which 
follows on a temptation resisted filled his heart, though he was 


206 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


too little given to introspection to know why he ^ps at peace. 
As he turned to haul the boat up the shore, an idea struck 
him, and he saw the exact spot where the coast defenses should 
be strengthened, the weak spot that the enemy would not fail 
to detect and take advantage of; but it seemed so strange that 
neither he nor those who planned the fortifications should have 
seen it before. 

Musing of guns, ships, and forts, he strolled along the sunny 
turf, seeing his chimneys and gables rise above the green domes 
of woodland encircling them, seeing the downs stretcliing away 
beyond the park, until he passed into the golden green shad- 
ows of a beech grove and came out in the full blaze of the 
afternoon sunshine upon the open park-land in front of the 
house, which stood on a rising ground. It was a fine old 
Jacobean building in gray stone, built on to an older wing, 
which extended far back, and was scarcely seen from this ap- 
proach, and behind which was a beautifully timbered Gothic 
hall, in good preservation. It was a noble specimen of a 
stately English home; the park was full of magnificent trees, 
the growth of ages; all along by the sea, beneath the down- 
ridge and beyond it for miles, spread well-cultivated fields, in- 
terspersed with farms and woods; a goodly inheritance. 

Edward Annesley looked at it and wondered if any one could 
be a whit the better for possessing it, as he did; the bare-armed 
and brown-faced gardener, pusliing his mowing-machine with 
a pleasant sound over the smooth deep sward, had as good a 
harvest for his eyes. The tops of the oaks caught the full 
sunshine in their russet and green leafage against th^lucid 
sky, and moved as pleasantly in the breeze for the gardener as 
for his master; the blue haze veiled the distance as sweetly and 
the sunlight lay as warmly for him on the weathered stone of 
the broad and picturesque house front. 

Edward had been much happier in the old days, when he 
was but a subaltern officer of artillery with a moderate income 
and few responsibilities, with no pretensions, but with endless 
2)ossibilities before him in the profession he loved, if not ex- 
actly with a field-marshal’s baton in his pocket, before his 
meeting with Alice Lingard had created an imperious need in 
his heart. x\ll he wanted then was a fair chance in the serv-' 
ice, the variety and possible travel and peril of a military life, 
his books and instruments, and leisure to use them, with the 
comjjanionship of men of similar tastes. Truly, he reflected, 
‘‘ man wants but little,” but by some strange perversity of 
fate that little is usually the unattainable; Sappho’s apple red- 
dening out of reach on the orchard’s topmost bough. Even 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 207 

Pkul, who SO well appreciated wealth and the consideration 
which accompanies it, had found it worthless withoift Alice to 
share his possessions and give the crowning grace to his beau- 
tiful home. 

Mrs. Edward Annesley was sitting at a table beneath a 
spreading plane-tree in front of the house, and at some dis- 
tance from it, with some needle- work in her hand. She saw 
her son issue from the beechen grove and come toward her in 
the sunshine. Some echo of his musings was in her mind at 
the moment; she too was beginning to realize the vanity of the 
good fortune which had so unexpectedly befallen them, though 
perhaps she would not have done so but for the blighting sus- 
picions which gathered round her son and deprived the whole 
family in some measure of the social standing their inheritance 
-should have given them. The great house seemed to her, as 
to Edward, unhome-like, and like him, she thought regretfully 
of the plain, unpretentious red-brick house mantled with ivy, 
in which her husband had died, and her latter years had been 
spent in peace and pleasantness. 

The reproach weighed on her, but not as it weighed upon 
Annesley himself. As her son drew nearer, her heart went 
out to him. It seemed as if Time had rolled backward in its 
course, and not her son but her husband, as she knew him in 
the fullness of his strength, was coming to her side again. 

“ Dear child P'’ she murmured within herself, while her kind 
eyes clouded, “ I never thought him so like his father till of 
late.^’ 

What was the change that every one noticed in him? she 
wondered, as she watched the well-knit figure, carelessly clad 
in a light morning suit, moving with firm even tread over the 
grass. Perhaps his step was too measured, and lacked its 
former lightness; certainly the dark eyes, shadowed by the 
straw hat, had lost their youthful joyousness, and looked out 
upon the world sternly, almost defiantly; and that made him 
life his fatlier, who had had many a fall in his rounds with 
Fortune. There was the stamp of ineffaceable trouble on his 
face; what could it be? Children, she reflected, must always 
be changing through all the stages of childhood to youth, and 
then from youth to manhood, and what manhood passes un- 
scathed by trouble and care? Annesley of Gledes worth — she 
was proud of the title in her fond way, and thought he be- 
came it well; he looked like a man to sit in high places, and 
be clothed with power and responsibility. 

“ All alone, mother?"^ he asked, taking a seat near her, and 
losing half a dozen years from his face as he spoke. ‘‘ Has 


208 


THE REPKOvVCH OF AHNESLEY. 


any one been or anything happened? I meant to have been 
in for luncheon, but the wind was fair for a sail/^ 

“ And you have been rowing, I see, by your blistered hands. 
How brown your hands have become! Ho, nothing has hap- 
pened, and nobody has driven or ridden out. 

“ 1 have just thought of selling Gledesworth,^^ said Edward, 
abruiDtly. 

“ My dear child, selling a property that has been in the 
family since King John^s time!''’ 

“ Yes, selling it, curse and all. I don't care for the place, 
do you?" He looked up and laughed. “ It gives me the 
creeps, and makes me fool enough to believe in the prediction. 
Upon my word, I wonder nobody ever thought of selling the 
curse before." 

“ There might be a difficulty in finding a purchaser, Ned. 
Oh, my dear," she added, more seriously, ‘‘ if you could but 
clear yourself of these suspicions! That is what poisons the 
place for you; that is our curse." 

I wish I could, for your sake," he replied; “ but really 
you take it too much to heart. What is a little ill-natured 
gossip, after all? Words are but air." 

“ Oh, that woman!" she exclaimed. “ She was the bane 
of your life long before you were born or thought of. She 
trifled with your dear father till she nearly wore him out, and 
no sooner were we engaged than she did all she could to make 
mischief between us. Not that I believe he ever really cared 
for her," she added, with asperity, “ but most men can be 
made fools of by artful and unscrupulous women." 

My dear mother," he replied, with some amusement, 
“ that is an old story to rake up. And you must admit that 
Aunt Eleanor got the worst of it in marrying my uncle Walter 
instead of my father. " 

“ There is comfort in that, Ned," she admitted. “ If ^he 
would but let you alone! It is she who slanders you, and no 
other. 1 could tell you stories of the vindictiveness of those 
Mowbrays that would make your hair stand on end." 

“ Poor soul!" he said, “ think of her trouble. I firmly be- 
lieve it has turned her brain. She is not responsible for what 
she does. I said so at the very first, if you remember." 

“ If she is mad, her temper has made her so, and she ought 
to be shut up," replied Mrs. Annesley, with curious logic but 
firm determination. “ My dear," she added, with apparent 
irrelevance, “ I quite believe in you, but it would make me hap- 
pier if you would tell me the whole story of that miserable 
business. " 


THE REPKOACH OF A^HESLEY. ^00 

•‘‘Myclep mother/’ lie replied, his face hardening as he 
spoke until he seemed no longer her son Edward, ‘^you 
promised me not to reopen that question. We have discussed 
it too much already. ” 

She looked him in the face, her heart beat, and a dreadful 
doubt sickened her. She had known this man from his 
cradle; he had told her all his thoughts and confessed all his 
errors and follies from the first stammer of infancy till now; 
could she doubt him? He had never to her knowledge lied 
since he was old enough to know the meaning of truth, he had 
even, in his cadet days, told her many of his scrapes. She 
had tried not to spoil him and turn him into the flabby sinner 
or saint a widow’s eldest son so often proves; she thought that 
she had never suffered him to rule her, and certainly had not 
let him pla}' the tyrant to the younger children; she had had 
very little trouble with him, but she knew that mothers and 
wives seldom hear the whole history of sons and husbands. 

“It is hard not to know. 1 am your mother!” she ex- 
claimed. 

“It is hard not to be trusted, and I am your son,” he re- 
plied, more gently; and then a servant appeared with tea-cups, 
and they could not pursue the subject. Harriet Annesley’s 
singing came faintly from an open window : 

‘ ‘ Ach Gott, mein. Lieb ist todt, 

1st bei dem lieben Gott,” 

and made him think of Alice and Paul. 

It broke off abruj^tly, and Harriet appeared at the top of 
the steps, down which she floated with a child-like grace, and 
joined her elder sister, Eleanor, who was now a fine young 
woman, and the two came to the plane-tree and scolded their 
brother for going off all day without telling any one. 

Then Eleanor poured out tea, and they were all very merry 
in a homely way. Edward thought how pretty and charming 
they were, and what a pity it was that the doors of society 
should be shut upon them just in the golden promise of their 
lives; and while he was thinking this and affectionately teas- 
ing them, he became aware of a sturdy little figure, with a 
dogged yet blushing face, striding with long, heavy steps 
straight over the turf toward him. 

“ Be you Squire Annesley?” asked th^ boy, stopping just 
in front of him, the sun blazing full on his hot face, white 
smock, and dusty boots. 

“Yes, boy. What do you want?” 

“ Then this here’s for you,” he replied, producing a letter. 


210 


THE EEPllOACH OF AKNESLEY. 


‘‘ and she said there wasn^t no answer. With that he turned, 
and was striding heavily back again without more ado. 

‘‘ Stop, boy!'’^ cried Edward, who had felt a thrill at first 
sight of his face, which he recognized vaguely as belonging to 
Arden; for all the faces there seemed to bear one family 
stamp. He gave the messenger a bright half crown, and bid 
the servant take him in and give him food, but still did not 
appear in a hurry to read his letter. 

“How very romantic observed Eleanor; “who is the 
‘ she,^ the.fair, the chaste, the unexpressive she?^^ 

“ Er war mit Herz und Seele meina,'’^ sung Harriet, her 
mind still burdened with her melancholy ditty. 

Then he broke the cover and read, his face changing from 
white to red and back to white again, till he folded the letter 
very exactly, and put it in his pocket with a thoughtful air. 
Presently he turned his gaze from the sunshiny trees and turf 
to his mother and sister, who were occupied with some trifiing 
discussion. 

“ How would you like to spend the winter in Eome?^^ he 
asked. “ You might go to Switzerland in August or Septem- 
ber, and gradually creep on to Rome by November. We 
could shut up this house tor a year. 1 might get a long leave 
and join you. What do you say?^^ 

There was a long and animated discussion, and presently 
the two girls moved off, full of the new scheme, and left the 
others alone. 

“It is all over,’^ Edward then said to his mother. “ She 
has refused me. Of course 1 shall think no more of it.'^^ 

Then he rose and joined his sisters. 

The letter was brief and formal. The writer hoped that 
Mr. Annesley would waste no more time upon an unprofitable 
subject upon which they could never come to any agreement. 
What occurred on the afternoon of the 10th of September last 
year made it impossible for her ever to entertain any thought 
of marriage. She hoped that in case of their meeting again, 
she might rely upon his bearing himself toward her as a friend, 
but nothing more. 

This last sentence, which poor Alice would probably never 
have written but for her painful experience of Paul’s tenacious 
courtship, was unfortunate in its effect upon Edward. It 
stung him into a fierce resentment, and made him seize his 
pen that evening and indite a haughty missive to the effect 
that Miss Lingard need not be in the least afraid of his 
troubling her with unwelcome attentions, a letter that wound- 
ed her to the heart’s core. 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 211 

The long golden beams of the evening sun stole through the 
closed blinds and fell on his paper as he wrote; such long 
beams were then falling upon Gervase and Alice on the down 
above Arden, when the -former was uttering the simple words 
which echoed so long through the memories of both, “ Quite 
right/ ^ 

0 

PART V. 


CHAPTER L 

AH ENGLISH TRIUMPH. 

A LL the eight bells in the church steeple were pealing down 
in joyous tumult through the sun-gilt smoke canopy which 
was spread above the slate roofs of Medington one mild Novem- 
ber afternoon; the streets of that quiet little town were filled 
with an unwonted life and stir, thickest and most turbulent in 
the vicinity of the town-hall, the open space in front of which 
was black with human beings. It is curious that crowds, no 
matter of what they may be composed, always are black; it is 
curious, too, that human faces in the mass are always of one 
tint, a very pale bronze without the faintest shade of pink; 
probably no one ever saw a crowd blush or turn pale, yet these 
truly awful phenomena must sometimes occur. 

The windows surrounding the space before the tj^wn*-hall 
were black with humanity, so was the balcony which served as 
hustings. When the eye became accustomed to the mass and 
began singling out its component parts, it detected many 
points of color; a large proportion of the men in the street 
wore the fustian, garb of the artisan; the few female forms 
discernible at the windows or in carriages contributed less 
lugubrious tints, and on many a coat, whether of cloth or 
fustian, there fluttered gay bunches of ribbon, dark blue and 
crimson on some, light blue and yellow on others. Those who 
wore the pale colors were radiantly and triumphantly aggress- 
ive, those who wore the dark, sullenly and defiantly so. All 
were demeaning themselves like Bedlamites; a few sad and 
anxious policemen jostled about among them were trying not 
to observe anything, one of these in his efforts to preserve an 
indifferent and easy demeanor, seemed quite absorbed in a 
close and searching examination of^ the pale blue sky above, 
across which some pigeons were flying, their clanging wings 


212 


THE IIEPIIOACH OF AHNESLEY. 


unheard in the tumult; the fact that a band of musicians 
bearing the dark colors were flying precipitately down a side 
street, pursued by various missiles, kicks and thumps, with 
their hats now and then crushed over their noses, and their 
instruments vibrating to unmusicianly strokes, did not pierce 
through his apparent abstraction. 

It was a scene to kindle wonder in the breast of an observ- 
ant Chinaman or Bedouin Arab, if such had chanced to be 
strolling through Medington High Street just then. A gentle- 
man on the balcony was gesticulating and shouting unheard 
ill the tumult made by the bells, and the cheering, yelling, 
groaning and whistling of the crowd. Yet people appeared 
to be listening to this frantic person through the uproar, and 
punctuated his discourse by hootings, hissings, cries of hear, 
hear! and clapping of hands; also by more personal favors, 
such as bags of flour, which for the most part fell short of him 
and burst with uncalculated effect upon unsuspecting citizens 
below to the • loud merriment of citizens not so favored. He 
was succeeded by another orator, and yet another. Now and 
again somebody, usually some half -grown boy, would utter a 
hoarse, half -despairing, half-defiant shout of “ Stuart for- 
ever whereupon the citizens with light ribbons would fall 
upon him pell-mell, and hustle and thump him with most 
Christian vigor, themselves hustled and thumped in turn by a 
posse of dark colors, who would rush to the rescue of their side. 
Had the intelligent foreigners asked the reason of these sudden 
displays of fraternal feeling, the belligerents would probably 
have been puzzled how to answer them. 

^ So great and overpowering was the joy in the breasts of the 
light colors, that one of them would occasion ally'crush the 
hat over the nose of a brother light color, out of pure gladness 
of heart and excess of brotherly love. Shop-keepers had 
hastily put up their shutters at the first crash of the bells, and 
prudent people, and those who preferred quiet enjoyments to 
the turbulent delights of laying about them with their fists, 
had cautiously transferred the dark colors, if so unfortunate 
as to wear them, from their coats to their pockets, a device 
which little profited one unlucky citizen, who effected the 
transfer more quickly than dexterously, and was betrayed by 
the ends of the streamers peeping from his coat-tail pockets; 
he was finally seen fleeing coatless down a back street, after 
having furnished infinite sport to the Philistine crowd. 

The balcony was now cleared, the crowd centered itself 
closely about a carriage ^^iting at the principal door of the 
town-hall, and removed the astonished horses decked with 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


213 


light blue favors from the traces; this was the mom«lit for 
another carriage, bearing dark favors and standing at a door 
in a side street, to take up a gentleman whose smile was rather 
forced, and bear him swiftly away. A great deep cheer, such 
a sound as comes only from broad-chested Englishmen, now 
rose with gathering intensity like the rising thunder of a 
league-long breaker and almost silenced the clashing bells, 
which were firing their sonorous salutes; the windows became 
white with the flutter of ladies^ handkerchiefs; the crowd ex- 
hibited severer signs of dementia, and then a slight figure issued 
hat in hand from the hall and took his seat in the carriage, 
followed by three taller and broader men, all wearing the tri- 
umphant light favors. Then the carriage moved slowly on, 
pulled and pushed by strong-armed, loud-voiced citizens, few 
of whom had any direct influence on the election; bouquets 
fell into it from ladies’ hands; a* citizen, unduly influenced by 
beer, staggered forward and shook a devious fist in the faces 
of the gentlemen in the carriage, thickly shouting, “ Stuart 
forever!” and then fell into the arms of a policeman, where 
he wept and told the policeman he loved him like a brother, 
and, amid shouts of ‘‘ Eickman forever!’’ declarations of the 
triumphant majority and exultant cheers, the carriage, fol- 
lowed by the light-favored band, wedged its way through the 
square and moved up the principal street. 

The Chinaman and the Arab would have been gratified by 
the sight of one sane and calm person in the midst of this 
strange madness, namely, the central figure of all the tumult, 
who sat serenely observing everything, with the declining sun 
firing his fair hair, and a very slight expression of disdain 
upon his thoughtful and resolute face, which was pale with the 
fatigue of the last few jveeks, but the habitual look of power 
and purpose on which was undisturbed by any sign of excite- 
ment or triumph. 

“It is the first step,” he thought to himself; yet he was 
constrained to confess, that although it was a fine thing for a 
young provincial attorney of no particular family or local in- 
fluence to be returned a Liberal member for that fine old Con- 
servative borough, the first Liberal member within the memory 
of man, it was a very long way from ruling England and per- 
haps the world, which latter would need some slight altera- 
tions before being ruled by England. But “ the rest will fol- 
low,” Gervase thought, knowing that almost anything is 
•possible to a born ruler with a fixed purpose and resolute will. 
Mrs. Waiter Annesley, leaning from her open window to 
throw him a bouquet bound with his colors, and receive his 


214 THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 

deferential salute, felt a thrill of pride when she looked upon 
the pale, intellectual face, so self-contained and calm amid the 
mad tumult; and when she contrasted the expression of his 
countenance with that of his supporters in the carriage, two of 
whom were well-known public men, and all of whom were 
flushed with excitement at this unexpected accession to their 
party, she echoed Geiwase's thought, “ the rest will follow/" 
She knew too that these men, with whom Gervase had been 
actively working for some time before he stood for the 
borough, expected a great deal to follow from talents such as 
his. Gervase was in some sort her own creation; she had 
given him substantial aid ; and it was she who had introduced 
him to the Liberal ex-Oabinet Minister who would not fail to 
see that powers so exceptional as his should be put to good 
use. Through Gervase, life had acquired a fresh interest for 
Mrs. Annesley; his career would feed the pride which had been 
so cruelly crushed by her son’s untimely death. 

At this moment Gervase smiled, for his observant eye 
caught a glimpse of Dr. Davis, that worthy alderman and ex- 
mayor, that staid and important medical gentleman and 
acknowledged leading practitioner, being hustled and bon- 
neted, and laying about him manfully in defense of his dark 
favors, which the triumphant Eadicals were trying to snatch. 
A little further on, that discreet and learned limb of the law, 
Mr. Pergament, was ignominiously bolting down a side street 
and vanishing into the darkness of a friendly passage, the door 
of which opened for him, and Mr. Daish, Eickman’s own 
partner, arm-in-arm with Mr. Dates, the grocer, was march- 
ing along in triumph, colors flying, and uttering spasmodic 
cries of “ Eickman forever! Hurrah!” 

Gervase wondered if any other influence save that of strong 
drink would have power thus to move these grave sons of 
civilization from their wonted decorum, and mused deeply on 
the eccentricities of the national temperament, so ponderously 
and immovably solemn, and yet on occasion so absurdly boyish 
and capable of rollicking fun. Here was a quiet little town, 
full of sad-faced shop-keepers and stolid workingmen, going 
stark mad because somebody was about to represent some of 
them — a very small proportion — in Parliament. It amused 
him excessively to think that he was supposed to represent the 
cumulative political mind of such a set of simpletons. He 
thought what humbug representative government was, even if 
jDushed to the logical fullness of universal suffrage. The 
great thing in moving the masses, he reflected, is to have a 
cry, a catch- word, the more dubious in meaning the better. 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 215 

He had seen two little girls slap each other^s faces because one 
was for Rickman and the other for Stuart. The crowd surg- 
ing about him and dragging his carriage knew and cared little 
more than those little maids for the meaning of the cry, most 
of them had no votes, the most enthusiastic were the street 
boys. Some voices, it is true, shouted ‘‘the ballot and-- 
“ extension of suffrage, but even these were catch- words for 
the most part, caught up from constant iteration in recent 
speeches and newspapers. So it was and so it wdll be. The 
cries of Guelf and Ghibelline rent the Italian communities of 
the Middle Ages asunder, and one of the factions formed by 
these cries was itself cut into Blacks and Whites in Florence 
in the days of Dante, whose life was soured for a wordy’s sake. 
There were catch-words in the olden days of 

“ The glory that was Greece, 

And the grandeur that was Rome.” 

There are catch-words in the youngest colonies of to-day, and 
he, thought the new member for Mediugton, who knows how 
to fashion and wield catch- words knows how to rule mankind. 

After all, what are catch-words but imperfect and attenuated 
symbols, and what are symbols but bodies to the sc^uls of 
thoughts? Perhaps even worn-out, soul-vacated symbols are 
better than absolute vacancy. 

Mr. Rickman, half-incredulous of his senses, sat with Sibyl 
at a window, looking toward the town-hall and heard the final 
state of the poll declared; Sibyl heard it with less surprise but 
with a gladness which made her eyes brighter than ever; she 
smiled inwardly at the sight of her brother's triumi^h, the 
comic side of which did not fail to appeal to her. 

Alice had refused to be present, and Gervase had thought 
this a good sign. Mrs. Rickman had declined going, on the 
ground that her son’s possible defeat would be too serious a 
thing to learn in public, in which Alice agreed with her; they 
stayed at home to console each other. 

In those days, before the ballot and compulsory education 
and all such fine recipes for the regeneration of mankind, news 
did not fiy quite so fast as ]iow; people w^ere not on such 
familiar terms with their freshly tamed demon, electricity, and 
country roads were not cobwebbed with telegraph wires. 1 
think nobody had as yet thought of extending and multiplying 
the 2^1ague of human babble and other noises by means of 
wires and drums. 

Thus people in Arden were ignorant of the result of the 
great political battle raging within a few miles of them; there 


216 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


was no cannon-thunder to come booniiug on the wind to the 
listening ears of the villagers; the nearest approach to the 
noise of fight was the faint, confused swirl of the Medington 
bells, when the eddying wind rushed up the valley and over 
the downs with a larger sway, and that far-olf sound merely 
told them that the battle was lost and won, as most battles 
are; it did not say who was the victor in the bloodless fray. 
Nevertheless, Raysh Squire, with a large dark-blue and crim- 
son favor, pinned with ostentatious profusion upon his jacket, 
descended early in the afternoon into the village for news and 
naturally took his way to the Golden Horse, which, besides, 
was the first house in the street, as the proper magazine for 
that commodity. But the Golden Horse offered absolutely no 
attractions that afternoon, beyond the gross and obvious 
charms of potent liquor; even the landlord was absent, and 
the landlady was not in the mood for social intercourse. 

Just opposite the Golden Horse, on the same side of the 
high-road and forming the other corner house to the by-road 
which led past the parsonage and on to the church-yard, stood 
a solid stone cottage, so old that it had sunk a couple of feet 
beneath the level of the high-road, which, perhaps, when new 
it dominated; like the leaders of thought, who in their golden 
prime stand above mankind, but, as Time rushes on, dejDositing 
a thick sediment of fresh ideas, sink gradually into the groove 
of old-fashioned thinkers. 

This sunken condition, though inconvenient in heavy rains, 
added, in Eaysh^s opinion, to the charm of the cheery little 
home, because it enabled one, without stirring from the cozy 
ingle-nook, to see over the flowers in the window the lower 
parts of everything that passed, thus enabling a person of im- 
agination to divine the whole, and preventing small things 
from being overlooked, and here he was wont to spend many 
a leisure quarter of an hour at the hearth of his daughter, who 
was married to Joshua Baker, the vicar’s gardener, and had 
more than once conferred the dignity of grandfather upon 
him. 

It looked specially inviting in the mild November day; the 
pear-tree spread over the blank gabled wall facing the inn, 
though leafless, was yet suggestive of mellow fruitage, and the 
few flowers in the tiny channel between the bricked-up road 
and the windows, though past bloom were still cheerful; the 
geraniums inside the diamonded lattices w^ere glowing with 
scarlet blossoms, the pale sunbeams brought out warm tints in 
the stone and thatch, and rosy-faced Ruth stood in the door- 


THE EEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


217 


way, with a baby in her arms and an infant playing on the dry 
road in front of her, to take the air and see the world. 

“Who's in?" she asked, moving aside, while Raysh de- 
scended the two steps and bowed his head to enter the low 
door- way, which admitted at once to the dwelling-room, a cozy 
little nest, pervnded by the vague odor peculiar to country 
cottages and mellowed rather than darkened by the sm^k^ of 
years. f 

“ That's just what 1 was agwine to ask," returned Raysh, 
dropping into the wooden arm-chair fronting the window and 
tapping the bowl of his pipe on the hearth, on which burned a 
fire of wood and furze, making warm reflections in the walnut 
dresser with its shining plates and cups, and on the tall oak- 
cased eight-day clock which ticked with a familiar home-like 
sound against the smoke-browned wall. “ Ain't Josh home?" 

“ l^^o; Josh likes to s^ what's going on. You may be 
bound he won't start home till he knows who's got in. " 

Then Raysh informed his daughter that a person from Med- 
ington passing through Arden at midday had declared the state 
of the poll to show a majority for Rickmap. “ 'Twas a 
Liberal lie," he commented, not intending any double mean- 
ing. “ They thinks if only they lies hard enough, 'twill 
hearten up t'others to vote on the winning side." 

“ I wish Josh wouldn't bide in Medington," returned Ruth, 
vdiose politics were of a purely personal cast. “ I can't abide 
these 'lections; they're nothing but drink and broken heads, 
so fur as I can make out, and family men are better out of 
them." 

“ It takes a powerful mind to see into politics," observed 
Raysh; “politics is beyond women. For why? A ooman's 
mind is made to hold in-door things; 'tain't big enough for 
out-door." 

Ruth reflected on this remark in silence, while she laid her 
baby in the cradle and called the elder child in by the fire, 
where it babbled happily to itself. 

“ What has politics to do with Mr. Gervase getting in?" 
she asked at length. “ Many's the time I've asked Josh what 
politics is, and all he can say is, ‘ it's^what the women can't 
understand. ’ There must be a power of politics in the world, 
for there's a many things I can't understand. " 

“ Understanding," continued Raysh, “ ain't expected of 
women. They talks overmuch aready without understand- 
ing, and the Lard only knows where their tongues would be if 
they'd a got summat to talk about! There's mercy in the 
way a ooman's made after all, Ruth. Politics now is a maz-‘ 


218 


THE llEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


ing subject; it makes the men talk pretty nigh so fast as the 
women.' IVe a yeared ’em say these yer members ’ll talk two 
hours at a stretch in Parlyment; some on ’em ’ll goo on vur 
dree or vour hours when they be wound up. They does noth- 
ing but talk, so vur as I can zee— a talky traiide is politics, a 
talky traiide.” 

“ I- haven’t anything agen the talk,” replied Euth, “it’s 
the drinlJ and the broken heads I can’t abide. There! it’s 
gone four and the bit of dinner done to death aready. One 
side is as bad as the other, so fur as 1 can see. ” 

“ You caint see fur, Euth; you ain’t made to, and you med 
war’nt whenever a ooman tries to look furder than Providence 
meant her to, there’s mischief. ’Tain’t every man can zee 
into politics, let alone a female ooman. Politics has two zides. 
One zide’s vur keeping what we’ve a-got, t’other’s for drowing 
of it all away. A mis’able mazing subjick is politics — mis’a- 
ble mazing, to be sure.” 

“ I’m sure I wish they’d keep their politics up in Parlyment 
and not bring ’em down this country-side, throwing tempta- 
tion in the way of steady family men with their living to get,” 
said Euth, going to the door and once more looking vainly 
down the road for the truant husband, whose dinner was 
spoiled now beyond remedy. 

“ Ay, that’s the way with the women,” continued her fa- 
ther, reflectively; “ there ain’t hroom inside of ’em vur out- 
door speculations. Their minds is made vur to hold vittles 
and clothes, and children and claning and sickness. I ’lows 
there ain’t hroom enough inside o’ they vur mazing subjicks 
like politics. But there ain’t no call vor ee to hruii out agen 
what you caint understand, Euth. Providence have a-made 
politics vur menvolks, zo as they med hae zummat to talk 
about and hrade in the newspapers when they’ve a done work. 
Providence have a-made politics vur gentlevolks zo as they 
med hae zummat to do when they baint a-hunting or a-shoot- 
ing. Whatever would gentlevolks do if they’d hadn’t a got 
no politics? I ’lows they’d pretty nigh fret the skin off their 
boiins, they’d be that dull and drug. You hain’t no call to 
hrun out agen Providence, Euth.” Eaysh sighed with a pious 
air, and shook his head over his daughter’s errors, the latter 
hearing him with the tolerant reflection that menfolk would 
have their say, and it mattered little what they said. 

The western sky was all afire with crimson, melting into a 
violet zenith; delicate opal- tinted cloudlets were breaking apart 
over the pale blue on the south horizon, and still Joshua had 
not returned. The little room was aglow now with fire-light. 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 219 

and sent warm gleams across the road through the diamond 
lattice and the open door; further on the Golden Horse’s bar- 
window cast ruddy beams upon the sycamore boles outside; a 
distant glow down th(3 village revealed the forge, where the 
clink, clink of the blacksmith’s hammer made cheery melody 
to the buriring accompaniment of bellows and flame; a faint 
blue mist lay over the fields, and an eddy of wind sent the dry 
aromatic leaves hurrying across the road as if driven by a sud- 
den panic, like those souls which Uante saw driven confusedly 
to the dark waves of Acheron, where the grim ferryman’s oar 
chastised the loiterers; then the eddy turned, and the panic- 
stricken rush of the leaves changed to a light aerial dance, 
joyous and graceful, till the dancers dropped in the dust as if 
with sudden weariness. The hands of the tall clock in the 
cottage pointed to near five when Mrs. Eickman was returning 
with Alice Lingard and Hubert, the latter very magnificent in 
the Liberal colors, from a walk; lingering every now and then 
to talk to a cottager, though her mind was far too preoccu- 
pied with the one subject of Gervase’s election for her dis- 
course to be very connected. 

“Joshua not home yet?” she asked, pausing at Euth’s 
door. “Well, Eaysh, what a mild evening! No; we have 
heard nothing yet. Miss Lingard took me out of the way on 
purpose. We don’t in the least expect my son to be returned, 
but I shall be sorry all the same, and bad news, you know, 
will keep.” 

This Mrs. Eickman had repeated in various different ways 
fifty times that afternoon to Alice, who took a more sanguine 
view of the question, though she, too, was nervous. Mrs. 
Eickman ’s final remark had been, “ Whatever we do, Alice, 
we must not condole with him. We must look upon the de- 
feat as a matter of course. ” 

But they had not been seated many minutes by Euth’s 
hearth, when a heavy step was heard upon i^lie road, and 
Joshua himself, unconscious of visitors, stamped noisily down 
the steps and on to the sanded floor crying, “ Hooray! Eick- 
man’s in!” 


CHAPTEE II. 

BY THE HHARTH. 

Joshua Baker received as guerdon for his news an unex- 
pected five shillings from Mrs. Eickman and an expected 
scolding from Euth, for he had not only wasted hours in Med- 


220 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 

ington, blit had evidently been in a skirmish^, of which ho bore 
the proof in rent garments. 

“ Whatever call had ye for to go fighting when you knowed 
Mr. Rickman was in?^^ his wife asked. 

“ Two or dree was laying about them/^ he explained, “ and 
I thought I med so well jine in/^ an explanation that did not 
satisfy Ruth, whose feminine mind had not room in it to 
admit the obvious fact that no sensible man can keep still 
when there is good .fighting to be had for nothing. But these 
confidences took place after the visitors had left the cottage, 
which they very quickly did, walking over the dry dead leaves 
lying thickly in their path, with hearts ready to dance with 
the lightness of the dancing leaves. 

“ I suppose it is true, Alice, said Mrs. 'Rickman, pausing 
with a shock of misgiving beneath the sycamores and looking 
dubiously toward Medington at the crimson western sky, which 
glowed through the dark elms, the delicate leafless branches 
and tall trunks of which were traced blackly against the warm 
colors. Alice laughingly reassured her, and they hastened up 
the lane to the Manor, j ust as one or two liquid stars appeared 
above its chimneys in the pale green sky. 

“It is surprising, Mrs. Rickman continued, “ that your 
uncle and I should have two such clever children. To be sure 
we had only two.^^ 

“ Quality is better than quantity,^/ replied Alice, wonder- 
ing if Mrs. Rickman thought that Gervase and Sibyl inherited 
the concentrated power of a baker’s dozen of children. 

“ I believe that Sibyl is writing a book, Alice,” Mrs. Rick- 
man said with a mysterious air, as they reached the flight of 
steps leading into the porch, through the half-open door of 
which a warm light streamed. ‘ ‘ Her father says that she is 
capable of anything after that last article of hers on com- 
pulsory education; though 1 dare say Gervase gave her all the 
ideas, if he did not write half of it. And now I should like to 
see him married to a really nice girl to whom I could be a 
mother.” 

“ So should I,” returned Alice, tranquilly; “ but I should 
be jealous of the nice girl. Aunt Jenny; that is, if you were 
too fond of her.” 

hTo sooner had they entered the hall than all the servants 
came crowding into it, with John Hobbs, the bailiff, and his 
wife, all eager to proclaim the good tidings; and scarcely had 
the congratulations and comments subsided, when a carriage 
drove up to the door, and Mr. Rickman and Sibyl, the latter 
radiant with excitement, sprung out, and the congratulations 


TSE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 221 

began over again; wine was brought, and the new member^s 
health was enthusiastically drunk. 

Alice stood a little apart, with Hubert lying at her feet, as 
if studying the scene with interest, and looked on at the ani- 
mated group with deeply stirred heelings, in which warm 
ahection for her adopted parents and Sibyl predominated. 
Her lip trembled, and tears, which she could not explain, 
dimmed the hgures standing in the blaze of the hearth-hre, 
dimmed the oak-paneled walls, full of mysterious shadows, 
the swinging lamp overhead, the glitter of glasses, and the de- 
canter from which Sibyl was pouring the sparkling wine with a 
face inhnitely more sparkling; and the thought bame to her 
that in the happiness of these people, who were so dear to her, 
she too might find a little gladness. Yet. she reproached her- 
self because she was not glad enough and did not overflow with 
high spirits like Sibyl, forgetting the difference in their tem- 
peraments, and calling herself selfish. But how long would 
this happiness last? she wondered, thinking of Gervase's in- 
satiable ambition, and the stormy and uncertain career on 
which he was launched. 

She was nearer the door than the others, and the pricking 
of Hubert’s ears called her attention to the rumble of ap- 
proaching wheels, unheard by the bacchanalian group before 
the hearth, and so it happened that she went to the door and 
opened it just as Gervase’s carriage drew up, and the first 
thing he saw was her figure in the arched door-way traced 
upon the glowing light from within, with the watchful Hubert 
by her side, decked with his colors. 

It was the sweetest moment in the day to him; in a moment 
he had cleared the steps, and was standing with both hands 
clasped in Aliceas, receiving her cordial greeting, “ Hear Ger- 
vase, 1 am glad! I think we have all lost our senses with 
pleasure.’’^ 

She was not surprised that his hands trembled as she held 
them, or that they retained their pressure long after she had re- 
laxed hers, or that he did not speak for some moments in answer 
to the congratulations showered upon him. He was tired and 
excited, overwrought with the tension of the last few weeks; 
no wonder he was not quite himself. 

Leaving him to the tender mercies of his family, she went 
herself to the deserted kitchen and fetched the coffee which 
had been made ready for hihi, and administered it before any 
one else had time to think of it, with the observation that even 
heroes are mortal. 

“ One might think,"" observed the hero, after gratefully 


222 


THE llEPKOACH OF ANKESLEY. 


taking the coffee, “ that nobod}^ ever got into Parliament be- 
fore. As the Scotch nurse said to the dying woman, ‘ Hech, 
hizzie, dinna mak such a stour, ye’re nae the first to dee.’ 
Why, even Hubert condescends to notice me.” 

“ Since mounting your colors he considers himself a politic- 
ian,” Alice replied; Wt she was not sure that Hubert’s glance 
was of an entirely friendly nature, for though he went up to 
receive the offered pat on the head with his usual stateliness, 
the white of his eyes was distinctly visible. 

A reaction is inevitable after excitement. The family party, 
after dinner a couple of hours later, was unusually quiet. 
They were all in the white drawing-room, one window of which 
was uncurtained and showed the quiet night sky, moonless but 
throbbing with the pale brilliance of stars, and occasionally 
irradiated by the flashing trail of a meteor. Alice, seated at 
the piano, could see through this window, the very window in 
which she was sitting when Edward Annesley, himself a meteor 
flashing through the peaceful starlight of her youth, first saw 
her. She was playing soft and dreamy music of her own im- 
agining, as she so frequently did when seeking to express her 
feelings; she seemed to be drawing the inspiration for her 
music from the tranquil star-worlds toward which her face 
was turned. Sibyl was reclining in a chair, doing nothing but 
listening to Alice and stroking the cat upon her knee, to the an- 
ger of Hubert, who was observing puss with one eye, as he lay 
at his mistress’s feet with his muzzle on his fore-paws. Mr. 
Kickman slej^t audibly in his chair on one side of the hearth 
with a newspaper folded on his knee; Mrs. Rickman slumbered 
peacefully in her chair on the other side of the hearth; the 
future ruler of England, if not the world, appeared to be fol- 
lowing his parents’ example in the corner of a sofa, but, 
though his eyes seemed to be closed, they were in reality as 
watchful as Hubert’s, and were aware of every slight move- 
ment of Alice, as she swayed over her instrument making 
music and looking with an earnest gaze at the starry sky. 
Every curve in the graceful form traced against the compara- 
tive darkness of window and sky, every change in her thought- 
ful face, and every note that answered the touch of her slender 
skillful fingers, stirred the depths of his heart with an intensity 
that was akin to pain. She was not happy, that was too evi- 
dent: and yet it was long since that evening on the down when 
he uttered those two fateful words, “ Quite right;” summer 
had faded and bloomed and faded again till the fourth winter 
from that summer was upon them. Yet in all that time he 
had seen no change in the sadness which then settled upon 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. - 223 

her, Hor found anything to warrant any indulgence of his 
hopes, and during that lapse of time Alice had scarcely seen 
Edward Annesley. 

When the Annesleys chanced to be at Gledesworth it hap- 
pened that Alice was not at Arden; she was more often away 
from home than in former days. Had it gone so hard with 
her? Gervase wondered, did she really care so much for that 

good-looking fool?’^ or was this sadness only the vague un- 
rest of a woman the promise of whose youth is unfulfilled? 
Sibyl had not that look of deep inward sorrow. 

While he was thus observing her with a yearning gazfi, she 
turned her head from the window and looked toward the 
hearth, meeting his eye, and smiled a smile of perfect confi- 
dence and affection, which transfigured her face and stirred 
him with a vague trouble. 

He left his place and drew a chair to the piano, on which 
she continued to play. “ I thought 1 had caught you napping 
for once, Gervase,^^ she said. 

“ You will never do that,^^ Sibyl said, looking up from the 
cat she was petting the teasing, “ he is the proverbial weasel. 
I mean to hide in his room some night to see if he ever really 
sleeps. 

“ The world, he replied, ‘^belongs to the man who can 
wake longest. ‘ Before her gate {i. e., Honoris) high God did 
sweat or&in. And wakeful watches ever to abide. ^ Am I 
quoting rightly, Sibyl ?^^ 

There arose a dispute about the quotation, the music died 
away, and Sibyl was so provokingly confident that the lines 
occurred in a sonnet, while Alice was as firmly convinced that 
they belonged to the “Faerie Queene,’^ that Alice left the 
room for the purpose of fetching Spenser from his book-shelf 
in proof. 

“ People ought never to be in earnest after dinner, especially 
when everybody is tired,'’ said Sibyl, petulantly, upsetting the 
cat, and taking Alice's place at the piano; “ earnestness is 
Alice's besetting sin, and I believe it is ruining her digestion." 

Sibyl played in her spasmodic fasliion snatches from differ- 
ent composers, for she had not Alice's grateful gift of trans- 
muting her own fancies into music as they arose; her parents 
slept on, and Gervase gradually, after a fashion of his own, 
got himself from a photograph book, to a picture on the wall, 
and then to a piece of bric-a-brac, until he reached the door- 
way, through which he silently disappeared. Thus when 
Alice, having verified the quotation, issued from the book- 
! oom to the hall with her heavy volume, she found Gervase 


224 : ' THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 

standing before the hearth, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, 
which was getting low. 

When she appeared, he kicked a log into place, thus stirring 
the decaying embers, and making some fresh wood kindle. 

Come,'’^ he said, pointing to a carved oak settle; it is 
nice here, quite gemuthlicli, and we can talk at our ease.'’^ 

Alice wondered that a man who had such a surfeit of talk 
during the last few weeks did not take the opportunity of en- 
joying a little silence, but took her place on the settle, laying 
the great book on the table, and told him about the Spenserian 
quotation, while he knelt on one knee before the hearth and 
plied the bellows, with the air of a man whose fate depended 
upon rousing a crackling flame from the logs. 

At last he made a noble fire, the brightness of which leaped 
U23 into the dark beams of the ceiling, danced airily over the 
black panels, playing at hide and seek with the lurking shadows 
in them, and quite overpowering the light of the swinging 
lamp. Then he rose, and stood leaning against the carved > 
chimney jamb, looking down into Aliceas face, which was 
irradiated by the brilliant blaze, saying nothing. 

She spoke of the times when their favorite winter sport was 
making the hall-fire burn, and of their rivalries and quarrels 
over the bellows. 

“ Sometimes,^’ she said, “ I think the pleasantest thing in 
life is to remember what one did as a child. But none of us 
could make such a fire as you could. It is. a pity,^^ she con- 
cluded, “ a really first-rate career as a stoker has been marred 
for the sake of — 

“ An indifferent one in politics,^^ he added. “ But no, 
Alice, it will not be indifferent, it will and must be brilliant, 
and 1 shall owe it to you if it is."’"’ 

“ To me? Are you dreaming, Gervase?^^ 

“ JMo; I am speaking sober truth. No one has nursed my 
ambition and cherished and developed my energies as you 
have, Alice. You always believed in me; you have been my 
inspiration; but for you 1 should have dared little and done 
less. You would never dream what you are to me, dearest. 

His voice quivered a little and lost its usual energetic ring; 
it touched her heart and made her hesitate to reply. “ It is 
kind of you to say tliat,^"’ she faltered at last, “ I have alwa 3 ^s 
hoped to be a good sister to you, next to Sibyl. You have 
been more than brother to me.'’^ 

“ I am. more than brother,"" he replied, in his fuller tones; 
then he paused a moment. “Alice,"" he continued, “this 
lias been a fortunate day for me, marking my first step in pub- 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


225 


lie life; I have, as you know, a little superstition about lucky ^ 
days, and I hope this may jorove fortunate in another sense. 
Public life, power, success, all these do not fill a inan^s life. 
There are deeper things that touch him nearer home, that are 
the foundation upon which he builds the superstructure of 
active life. A happy domestic center is a necessity to one who ' 
is to do good work in the world. iNothing is any good to a 
man whose heart is hollowed out by unsatisfied yearnings and 
vain hopes. 

Her face grew graver as she listened to the deepening vibra- 
tions in the mellow voice, which was not invariably mellow, 
but sometimes harsh; and her heart ached. She knew what 
was coming; the old trouble which she thought forever at rest, 
was starting afresh into life. He was very dear to her, dearer 
than she thought, and the prospect of having to wound him in 
an hour so happy, and casting such a cloud over his first tri- 
umph, was inexpressibly painful. She could not meet his 
gaze;. she averted her head and watched the fire-light playing 
over a panel and making the suit of armor in front of it stand 
out grim and full of hostile suggestion. Hubert sat up with 
his head just above her knee, and a look of sympathy in his 
eyes. “ The dog at least is faithful and true,^^ shot across her 
mind with no apparent relevance; for whom did she suspect of 
falsehood? 

“Oh, Gervase!^^ she exclaimed, “1 did so trust in your 
brotherhood! I thought you had kept your promise.^-’ 

“ I did keep it till now — and at such a cost! Can you think 
what it must be to live in perpetual warfare with one^s self? 
To crush the best and dearest feelings? Oh, Alice! have 1 not 
tried all these years? Have 1 not stood by in silence and seen 
others preferred? Did I not see your trouble, and yet was 
silent? Did I ever by word or look betray what I could not 
conquer? I have often said that will can conquer everything, 
and it is true. But something has conquered me, it is stronger 
than even my strong will. And unless you can give me some 
hope, Alice, nothing will ever be any good to me.^'’ 

“ If 1 had but foreseen this, she replied, “ I would have 
gone away; 1 would never have stayed near you to encourage 
false hopes. 

“Not false; they mus^ realize themselves, being so strong 
and invincible, he returned in a tone that made her tremble; 
for it recalled his passionate assertion on the downs so long 
ago that he would win her in spite of herself. And all things 
seemed to conspire that he should win her. A remorseless 
fate seemed to be slowly hedging her in and driving her to bay; 

8 


220 


THE EEPROACH OE AENESLEY. 


her life was barren and desolate, her will in comparison with 
that of Gervase was as silk to iron. He had a secret mastery 
over her which sometimes repelled her when she. felt most ten- 
derly toward him, for she was not one of those singularly con- 
stituted women who like, or profess to like, to have a master; 
her pride and self-respect revolted at the notion of subjection. 
Whenever she was conscious of this mastery, her heart turned 
from him, and she feared him and dreaded her own weakness. 

Instantly he was aware of the change his words produced in 
her, and knew he had made a false step, on which he hastened 
to return; he saw the proud blood flash to her cheek as she 
hardened her gaze to meet his. 

‘‘ It is so hard to have no hope,"’"’ he added, in a tone that 
at once disarmed her. “ Life is new to you, Alice, fresh in- 
terests might still arise for you — in the course of time. I can 
wait. 

She said nothing; but her tears fell. Then he told her how 
he had tried, and tried in vain to conquer his feelings through 
all these years, and spoke of the exquisite pain of being so near 
to her and yet so far olf, of the difficulty of the part he had 
had to play, of seeing her suffer and being impotent to help 
her. He spoke of their years' of affectionate intercourse, of 
his parents’ wishes and of the sorrow they would feel if they 
had to part with her. He hinted that it vvas impossible during 
the heyday of youth to live always in the past, that it was well 
sometimes to turn down a leaf forever in the book of life, and 
begin afresh with new aims and hopes. Life was full of duty 
and responsibility, and to make a fellow-creature happy was 
no mean aim. 

She believed every word he said, and hai’ heart bled for 
him. He believed most of it himself; for when people are in 
the habit of manipulating statements of facts to suit their own 
purposes, the distinction between the actual and the desirable 
is apt to grow very shadowy, and to deliver a round unvar- 
nished tale becomes a Herculean labor of the flrst magnitude. 

But she could only tell him, as gently as possible, that his 
hopes were vain; and then they were interrupted. 

Gervase was not sorry for the interruption. He thought 
enough had been said for the time, and was as satisfled as it is 
possible for a man who is very much in love to be on receiving 
a direct refusal. This refusal was very different from the 
flrst; all the circumstances in Alice’s life were now different 
and more in his favor. When they went upstairs, he sat very 
comfortably before the blaze of the drawing-room Are, feeling 
that things were advancing, however slowly. Chance had 


THE KEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 




again set Alice against the background of the starlit sky. He 
looked at her pale and troubled face, and saw a falling star 
shoot across the heavens behind her at the very moment when 
his heart was uttering the passionate wish of his life. The 
star made him almost certain of success; he asked Sibyl if she 
had seen it and remembered to wish, and set Mr. Eickman off 
upon one of his interminable monologues on shooting-stars and 
the various superstitions and fancies connected with them, thus 
giving himself leisure to be silent and think in peace, and 
Alice space to recover from her perturbation unobserved. 

Alice sat long by her fire that night, instead of going to bed; 
she was too much stirred to sleep, and was a prey to a ceaseless 
whirl of thoughts over which predominated the foreboding 
that she would ultimately marry Gervase in spite of herself. 
She thought of the years she had spent under that roof, of the 
deep ineradicable feelings which were twined about the familiar 
trees, gables and garden plots of Arden. The very figures in 
the carved oak were old and dear friends; no place could ever 
wear the same home-like face for her. She had always ad- 
mired Gervase^s talents, done homage to the energy of his 
character, and felt the charm of his society. But in the last 
year or two he had gradually come to fill a larger space in her 
life. A vague unspoken something had arisen between herself 
and Sibyl since the day when each read the other'^s secret, the 
complete confidence of their early friendship was broken by 
the reticence that discovery created on each side; though their 
affection was not diminished. At the same time the bitter sor- 
row through which Alice had passed created a stronger need 
for the healing of affectionate intimacy, and she unconscious- 
ly threw herself more and more on Gervase^’s friendship. 

When a man tells a woman of his struggles and difficulties, 
it is not only a sign that he has a very deep regard for her, 
but it is the surest way of winning her heart. This Gervase 
knew. He believed that Othello would have sighed in vain, 
but for the happy instinct v/hich made him relate the perilous 
adventures which so stirred Desdemona^s fancy and touched 
her heart; in which case she might have escaped suffocation 
and lived to a green old age; while but for similar narratives 
on the part of iEneas, Dido of Carthage would never have 
mounted the famous pyre. Therefore he fell into the habit of 
confiding his ambitions, aims and struggles to Alice — with a 
certain reserve, of course; for it is not to be supposed that 
Desdemona was in a position to compile a complete biography 
of Othello, while Dido was very far from knowing the whole 
history of .dSneas; it is even possible that both these warriors, 


22S 


THE KEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


like Goethe, may have mingled a little BicliUing with the 
Wahrheit out of their lives, it is certain that Gervase was far 
too clever not to do so. Thus Gervase had gradually become 
dearer to Alice; he made her life sufferable in the heavy sor- 
row which had desolated it. 

The pale resolute face, alive with intellect and energy, and 
spiritualized by the worthiest passion he had known; the slight 
but strong figure, imposing though small, haunted her, and 
his voice, mellowed and deepened by feeling, rang in her ears. 
Most great men have been small, she remembered, and only 
men -with voices of a certain power can directly influence demo- 
cratic communities. Ought she to mar the splendid career 
before him for the sake of her own feelings? What had she to 
live for but the welfare of that family? 

Then there came a sudden warmth about her heart and she 
seemed to see the fa@e of Edward Annesiey, aglow with the 

sweet and sudden passion of youth, as she had first seen it 
with a kind of passionate surprise, when she looked up from 
her spring flowers and felt the spring-time of life stirred within 
her. 

She could never forget that; even the crime which set their 
lives asunder could not quench the love which was kindled in 
the days of innocence. It would be a sin to marry one man 
when she felt this for another. 


CHAPTEE III. 

SIBYL. 

Next morning the new member for Medington, who only 
allowed himself the solace of one night at Arden in recom- 
pense for the labors of the few weeks preceding his election, 
left early and did not see Alice again for some time, except oc- 
casionally in the presence of others. 

Although Parliament was prorogued until February, he had 
a great deal of political business on hand that winter; his 
fluent and flashy rhetoric being in great request at one or two 
by-elections and club-meetings, whither he went at the in- 
stance of the ex-minister and party chief to whom Mrs. Wal- 
ter Annesiey had introduced him, kid who wished to make all 
the possible use of so keen and delicate an instrument as that 
he had lighted upon in Gervase Kick man. 

But Gervase wrote frequently to Alice; charming letters, 
full of pungent reflections on the scenes and men which passed 
before liim, full of personal confidences and kindly jests, and 
not too affectionate. He knew better than , to reopen the ques- 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 229 

tioii of marriage, and only occasionally alluded to hopes which 
lay in the future, and feelings which might never be gratified. 
He had made the important step of prevailing on her to enter- 
tain the idea of marrying him. He wisely left that idea to 
germinate silently within her mind. Impulsive, warm-hearted 
Sibyl had often been laughed at as a child for digging up her 
flower-seeds to see how they were growing; but Gervase’s seeds 
had always been left undisturbed beneath the dark mold to 
fulfill their inevitable destiny, and at the same time had en- 
joyed more systematic watering and weeding than SibyFs. 

Mrs. Rickman now spoke to Alice of her wishes, which, of 
course were molded on her song’s, and even Mr. Rickman 
withdrew his mind for a brief space from the contemplation of 
scientific facts and the formulating of all sorts of theories, to 
tell Alice how happy she would make the evening of his life if 
she would marry his only son. Alice assured them that she 
would certainly marry no one else, and would not leave them 
i\nless they drove her forth on the advent of a more suitable 
daughter-in-law. Even Mrs. Walter Annesley arrayed herself 
on Gervase'^s side, and went so far as to hint to Alice that 
moral suttee could scarcely be expected even of a young woman 
who might have married her son, especially when there was a 
chance of sharing and stimulating a career so brilliant as that 
of Gervase promised to be. A sort of paralysis of the will 
crept upon Alice under all this; she felt the iron power of a 
destiny which seemed to be closing her in on every side, and 
all she could do was to pray for strength to do what would 
work for the happiness of others. 

Then something occurred which powerfully stimulated her 
halting purpose. 

The Annesleys did not return to Gledesworth after the win- 
ter abroad which Edward had proposed as a temporary change. 
Their experience of living at Coventry in a country-house was 
too gray when contrasted with the vivid glow of continental 
travel (not then so common as now) ; the girls acquired the 
habits of English Bedouins, and were seized by the strange 
fascination of a wealthy nomadic existence in those sunny 
countries which not only teem with historic association, but 
are the homes of art. Therefore they only returned to Eng- 
land for an occasional visit to London. 

But Edward Annesley made it a duty to visit Gledesworth 
from time to time and see personally into the aSairs of the 
property; though he was not recognized by the landed gentry, 
or either asked or permitted to perform any of those genial 
public duties which belong to that class. The cloud upon his 




230 THE KEPKOACH OF AHHESLEY. 

name grevv darker with time, but he continued to maintain 
that time would finally dissipate it. His manner changed 
totally during this period; he became reserved, cold, taciturn, 
and gloomy. All this did not tend to soften his painful posi- 
tion among his brother-officers, who did not recognize his ex- 
istence more than they were obliged by their unwritten code 
of etiquette. His next brother, Wilfrid, also a military man, 
a royal engineer, implored him to leave the service for his own 
sake, but in vaffi. He replied that the army was his chosen 
profession, and that he intended to stick to his colors, and 
serve his country while he could; he was not to be driven away 
by the clatter of a few venomous tongues, whose venom he 
would justify by yielding. Then he invented a gun, and was 
not without hope that it would one day be adopted by the au- 
thorities. At this time he looked as grim and aggressive as 
his own gun. 

Yet there was one in whose presence his face brightened 
and his tongue was unloosed, and that one was Sibyl Rickman. 
She sometimes visited the Annesleys in their foreign haunts, 
and Edward usually made his visits coincide with hers. 
When he paid his brief visits to Gledesworth he always went 
to the Manor, and whether by chance or purpose, it often be- 
fell that Sibyl was at home and Alice absent at these times. 
One day Gervase suddenly told him that he could not have 
his sister^s affections trifled with any longer, and that in fact 
if he had no intentions he must be off at once. Edward was 
indignant at the supposition that SibyTs affections had been 
touched, much less trifled with; but Gervase pointed out to 
him that the world^s opinion was on his side, and that Paul 
Annesley was not the only person to suppose him to be smitten 
with Sibyl at his first visit to the Manor; that he had been 
taken in himself, and so undoubtedly had Sibyl. Gervase had 
always supposed, he said, that having thoughtlessly used Sibyl 
as a blind before PauTs death, Edward^s subsequent attentions 
had been deliberate, else he would never for a moment have 
tolerated them. 

From hot indignation Edward passed to cool reflection, and 
from hoping that Sibyl had never thought seriously of him, he 
proceeded to the notion that to win such a heart as hers would 
make life livable once more. Gervase, with his accustomed 
discretion, had left him to digest these unwelcome observations 
the moment he had delivered himself of them, rightly divin- 
ing that he had cast his handful of seed in a good soil. 

Edward had from the first recognized SibyPs charm and ap- 
preciated her guileless character and bright wit, and the more 


THE EEPROACH OF AHHESLET. 


231 


he thought of her the better he liked her, and the more he 
pondered, by the light of rnemory, on Gervase^s hints as to her 
probable view of the relations between them, the more plausi- 
ble did they appear to him. It was but just to Wilfrid to 
marry before the latter had built any decided expectations on 
his celibacy. 

All good men like the idea of marriage in the abstract, it is 
only bad fellows who look with a cynical and incredulous eye 
upon wedded bliss (for which they are obviously unfit) ; Ed- 
ward Annesley was no exception to this rule, knowing from his 
observation of mankind that the human male is vastly im- 
proved by being brought into proper subjection and tamed to 
the female hand. 

Therefore with renewed hope he once more set forth in 
search of a wife. 

It was on a cold Christmas-eve, the ponds were frozen and 
unspoiled by snow; Sibyl, who skated well, had met him more 
than once on the ice, and his hopes had been stimulated during 
the courses they had made together hand in hand, to the ad- 
miration of all beholders; for Sibyl looked so happy and so 
pretty while skating, that it was enough to make an old man 
and even an old woman young to look at her. 

Alice and Sibyl were busy decorating the church that winter 
afternoon when Edward Annesley arrived at Arden. He soon 
made his way to the church, and looked into the hoary interior, 
where the gloom was intensified by the dim ray of a candle or 
two, and where the air was aromatic with fir and bay, and 
saw the two girls,, with some more young people, intent on 
hammering up wreaths. He soon joined them and held ham- 
mers and handed wreaths about; till Sibyl left them to go to 
the belfry, where the despotic Eaysh had compelled them to 
keep their material, in search of fresh wreaths. Presently he 
followed her, unobserved except by Paysh. Alice, at whose 
bidding Sibyl had gone, grpwing tired of waiting, after a time 
went to remonstrate at having to work single-handed. But 
Raysh, seeing her approach, waved her back from the belfry 
door, which stood ajar, with a mysterious air. 

“ I Tows there baint hroom for me and you in there, he 
said; “ coorten,^^ he added, confidentially. 

Then the situation became clear to her; she could see the 
two figures in the light beyond the crack of the door, talking 
earnestly and apparently oblivious of everything around them. 
The evergreens were piled up inconveniently round them in 
obedience to the dictum of Raysh; “ I caint hae my church 
messed up by this yer nonsense, he had grumbled, lamenting 


232 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


the days when he alone adorned the church, and made it look 
“ cheerfuller and more Christmas-like by sticking a large 
bough of holly in every pew, till it looked like Birnam Wood 
marching up for devotion instead of retribution. 

She had seen Edward and Sibyl skating together the day be- 
fore, when she drove to the ice to fetch Sibyl home, and had 
heard people^s comments on them with an incredulous ear, 
but now she was fully enlightened. 

She quickly silenced Eaysh, and then turned back beneath 
the dim, cold arches with a singing in her ears, and a fierce, 
hot surge of passion which surely could not be that dark and 
dismal thing, jealousy, in her heart, and applied herself with 
fierce diligence to nailing up the red-berried holly, taking a 
perverse pleasure in pricking her hands till they bled, and 
driving in the nails with an energy that made Eaysh use strong 
language when he took them out again. Never had such 
strange and bitter feelings possessed her before, she did not 
know herself, surely her guardian angel would not have known 
her that day. Does it need but some momentary touch like 
this, she wondered, to change the current of a character and 
turn light into darkness? But a few years ago in that very 
church she had met the summer dawn with such high resolves 
and feelings so different. 

Her companions spoke to her, and she answered them like 
one who wanders in sleep; the dim and darkening church 
seemed unreal as the architecture of dreams; its trooping 
shadows and dickering spots of light oppressed her and added 
to the confusion which throbbed within and nearly stifled her. 
Her life seemed to depend on the energy with which she moved 
and worked; did she but pause an instant to think, she would 
be undone. And was it truly Sibyl who awakened such anger 
and scorn in the heart which loved her? And was it true that 
Alice once actually loved that shallow man, who was filling the 
measure of his faults by proving a trifler, a light of love, and 
a traitor? 

It was only when she had exhausted her energies, and torn 
her hands in finishing her task that better and more rational 
feelings came. After all, she mused, might this not be the 
best thing for both? Sibyl believed in him; who could tell 
what a purifying and ennobling influence her perfect trust and 
innocent love might have upon him? Sibyl might still be 
happy with him, being blind. So she brought herself to think 
after painful wrestling. 

“ Sibyl, Edward began, without hesitation, when they were 
alone in the belfry, “ we have been friends for a long time* 


THE REPEOACH OE ANHESLEY. 


233 


and you are more dear to me every day, and I think — I hope 
— you care for me — here he paused, expecting a reply, 
which naturally was not forthcoming. Will you marry 
me?^^ he added, in his straightforward fashion. 

Sibyl had looked up with her usual frank smile, when he 
entered, and went on unsuspiciously twining her ivy leaves, 
hut when he spoke, her heart gave a great leap, all the blood 
flushed up into her face, and the belfry seemed to spin round 
and shake the great bells above her head. Something rose in 
her throat and choked her; she grew cold all of a sudden and 
looked with wistful inquiry into his face, which was earnest 
and eloquent with warm feeling. Then she looked down, and 
he waited in vain for her answer, thinking hers one of the 
sweetest faces that was ever seen, and went on to his down- 
right question, to which she immediately answered ‘‘ No. 

“ No/^ he echoed, somewhat taken aback by this plump 
and plain negative, and I thought once — that you seemed to 
care for me. ” 

Sibyl smiled, and he seemed to see Viola again, 

‘ ‘ I am all the daughters of my father’s house, 

And yet — I know not.” 

“ Once,^"' she said, “ I was in love with you. When 1 was 
a little, naughty girl. You were such a pretty boy and 
always hit everything you threw stones at. And you didiiT 
mind being teased like poor Paul. You should have asked me 
then. 

“ But I had not sense enough then. 1 know that you be- 
lieve in me, you told me so once. 

“ And I will tell you so again, if you like to hear it,^^ she 
replied, in her bright, impetuous, way. 

‘‘ Thank you. You are the very sweetest little thing on the 
face of this perverse earth! But wonT you have me? Some- 
how it strikes me that we should get on well together and 
make a pleasant-going sort of couple. You scold so charm- 
ingly. Then it was that Edward took her hands and looked 
down, too confidently, into the sweet face, which was tender, 
sad, and playful all at once. 

It strikes me that we shall do nothing of the kind,"’ she 
replied, withdrawing her hands with some indignation. 
‘‘ You don’t love me,” she added, with a seriousness touched 
with reproach. 

“ Indeed I do.” 

No, indeed you don’t. You love somebody else. You 


234 


THE KEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


have loved her for years and will love her forever. And you 
ought to, for she is the dearest creature in the world. 

But she won^t have me.'’^ 

‘‘ 'Won^’t she? Try again. Wait. She is worth it.'’^ 

‘‘No, Sibyl, that chapter is closed. It is quite true that I 
shall never feel again as I did for her, never. But past is 
past. One canT live backward. One has to go on. You and 
I have always been such friends; let us be more. You might 
make me happy, and 1 would try to be good to you. 

He had taken her hand and led her forth from the darken- 
ing chamber beneath the bells, into the warm, crimson glow of 
the frosty sunset, and now they slowly paced the hard footpath 
among the graves, until they reached the meadow above and 
beyond the church-yard, where the leafless elms made a fine 
black tracery on the deejD orange sky above them. 

‘‘Oh! what tiresome, clumsy, stupid things these men are!^^ 
exclaimed Sibyl; “ you donT even profess to care for me, you 
see. Why in the world should you want to marry me, then? 
You say we are good friends, let us hide friends, then. A 
good friend is better than a bad husband, which you would 
certainly be. 

“ There is nothing in the world so irritating as a woman, 
returned Edward, trying hard not to kiss her, and restrained 
by innate awe of the womanhood in which this guileless spirit 
was enshrined. “Just think of the comfortable quarrels we 
might have. As mere friends, the sphere is limited; conven- 
tionalities must be observed. 

“ Is this a theme for jesting?^^ asked Sibyl, severely. “ Oh, 
I should hate you if I thought you had ceased to love that 
dear, sweet creature! For pity^s sake, be rational.-” 

“But you began the jesting,"^ he remonstrated, aghast at 
this charge. 

“ Well, and I began leaving it off. Good-night. Alice is 
pricking her sweet fingers with no one to help her. 

“ Stop, Sibyl, just one word.” 

Sibyl stopped with an air of resignation. “lam busy, and 
it^s cold,” she said, plaintively. 

“ Of course I shall always love her,” he said, earnestly, “ as 
one loves what is too high and too far off to reach. But, 
dearest Sibyl — ” 

“ Then don't tease me any more. Who cares to hear other 
people made love to?” 

“ But, Sibyl—” 

“ It should always be done first-hand, and never talked 
about,” she added, rebukingly. 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


235 


But, Sibyl— ^ 

“ My name is Eickman. I shall never change it. I am 
married to my pen — 

“ But I wish you could marry me, too.” 

You would unwish it in a week. Now listen, said Sibyl, 
stopping on the crisp grass with sudden gravity. “ I like you 
— far too well to marry you. You fancy you care enough for 
me to make a passable husband, but it is only friendship. In 
a week’s time you will see that I am right. Be true to your- 
self, then you will be true to others.” 

The warm glow of the. sunest had burned away to a pale 
memory, a mist was floating ghost-like from the level meads 
beneath them, the Christmas moon had just risen and was 
filling the earth with a tender, dreamy radiance. Sibyl’s face 
in the pale, blended lights had a new and unexpected beauty; 
her rich tints were subdued and the luster of her dark eyes in- 
tensified. 

What was the secret charm which so irresistibly drew him 
to her? It was very different from the deep, inevitable and 
inextinguishable feelings which bound him to Alice. Some- 
thing told him that Sibyl knew him better than he knew him- 
self, her deep, liquid eyes seemed to be gazing into the depths 
of his soul, and discovering recesses closed even to him. What 
was the secret of her power? Was it genius? His brain was 
full of lyric snatches from the little volume of poems which 
had just appeared in Sibyl’s name, and they had seemed to his 
not exigent judgment to have the ring of true song, they had 
further suggested revelations of Sibyl’s own heart. Her 
earnest glance spoke a thousand unspeakable things, it re- 
vealed the guileless soul of a gentle Viola, yet with all its ten- 
derness it scarcely concealed the swift lightnings of a spirit 
full of mirth. While he gazed, his own spirit began to clear 
and he saw that she was right. He saw that his feeling for 
her, though in that moment she had acquired a dearness that 
she never had before, was not one to justify marriage or for- 
bode a happy union. He saw, too, that deeply as he had 
pressed his love for Alice down into the lowest hold in his 
heart, he could not stifle it; above all the disappointment, 
chagrin, and resentment, her refusal and want of faith had 
caused him, and above all more tender and gracious feelings, 
he had that strong sense of oneness with her, which is only felt 
once and can not end. He knew now that the dream Gervase 
had called into existence was vain, and that the double life 
with all its cares and joys and perturbations was not for him, 
since Alice was beyond reach. 


230 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


‘‘ Dear Sibyl/ ^ he said, after a pause, ‘‘ I think you are one 
of the sweetest creatures God ever made! I will be true to 
you, at least. And I think we shall be friends all our lives 
lonff."" 

think we shall, replied Sibyl, with a little tender smile. 
Then they clasped hands and parted. 

She went slowly back through the chill silver of the aerial 
moonbeams, her breath visible in the frosty air, and the frozen 
grass rebounding stiffly from beneath her light steps, and met 
Alice and the Mertons coming out of the dark church, the 
deep blackness of which was still emphasized by a few dim 
lights. The clear evening sky into which pale stars were 
slowly stealing, the gray church with its steep red roof and 
massive tower, the village with its red lighted windows, the 
bare trees all sleeping in the moonshine, the faces looking un- 
earthly in the bluish light, the associations of Christmas-eve 
which threw a hallowed glory over all, everything seemed sweet 
and full of unspeakable charm to Sibyl. The hour she had 
just passed was the flower of all her life, and she was content; 
her heart was like a sleeping babe, perfect in its deep, sweet 
repose. 

She scarcely heal’d the ‘‘ good-nights of the Mertons when 
they turned in at their gate, but with her hand in Alicea’s arm 
walked silently home, her looks communing with the serene 
clear heavens. Alice was quiet too, but it was with a different 
quietness. They went into the kitchen to see the mummers 
acting their primitive play from house to house; but Sibyl did 
not enter into the homely jests as usual; it was as if she had 
let her spirit pass away with the mystic glories of the twilight 
and only her body remained. They listened to the carol-sing- 
ing, and sat round the hall-fire till midnight, but Sibyl said 
nothing to any one of her twilight ramble. Alice wondered at 
her silence, and was vaguely pained and disappointed, and 
when Gervase in bidding her “ good-night pressed her hand 
lingeringly, she returned the pressure, and was glad to think 
there was at least one on whom she could absolutely rely, and 
whose care for her nothing could abate. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SPIRITS. 

Although the one dream which promised brightness to his 
clouded life had just been dissipated, Edward Annesley drove 
back to Gledesworth in no despondent frame of mind. The 
evening sky shone with a holier luster than usual; his horse 


THE REPROACH OF ANKESLEY. 


237 


seemed to fly like some air-borne immortal charger, instead of 
prosaically trotting over the hard roads. It was as if he had 
attempted to enter a room full of music and mirth, and had 
found himself instead in the dim cool spaces of some hoary 
cathedral/listening to solemn prayer cadences and deep organ 
thunders. 

When he reached home he found a card with a half -forgot- 
ten name upon it, “ Major Mcllvray,'’^ and was told that the 
major, hearing he would return that evening, had promised to 
call again on the chance of finding him, which he did. 

Major Mcllvray^s regiment had been sent on foreign service 
a few months after the death of Paul Annesley, with whom he 
had become well acquainted after his first introduction to him 
at the meet at the Traveler's Eest. He had recently returned 
to England, and was stationed at a large garrison town, within 
two hours of Gledesworth, whence he had come that day in- 
tending to return before night. At one time Edward Annes- 
ley had been in the habit of meeting Major Mcllvray constant- 
ly, and had been on sufficiently intimate terms with him to 
find fault with him and turn his foibles into good-humored 
ridicule; but he had now become such a solitary, that he 
scarcely remembered how to welcome friends, and received the 
major with a grim coldness that would have discomfited most 
people, looking at him as much as to say, ‘‘ What on earth do 
you want?'^ 

Major Mcllvray was not easily rebuffed; he did not appear 
to notice the coldness of his reception, and sat by the fire with 
his usual composure, making commonplace observations in the 
spasmodic drawl which he affected, and secretly studying Ed- 
ward^s face, and comparing him with his former self. 

When he heard that he was passing the night at the village 
inn, Edward asked him to transfer his quarters to Gledes- 
worth, which he at once consented to do, to the surprise of 
Annesley, who only asked him as a matter of form, a form he 
had almost forgotten to use, so much of a recluse had he be- 
come. 

‘‘My mother, said Major Mcjlvray, “remembers meet- 
ing you at some dance at her house. You came up from 
Aldershot with me. Glad if you would call when in town. 

“ She is very good. I don^t — visit much,'"' he replied. 

“ Find it a bore? So do I. But do as Eomans do.^^ 

The blood rushed darkly to Edward’s face. Mcllvray had 
not been long in England, he remembered; it was probable 
that he had heard nothing of the imputation which rested 
upon him. Yet Lady Mcllvray was in the way of hearing it. 


238 


THE REPROACH OF Als'NESLEY. 


He relapsed again into the grimness which Mcllvray’s friendli- 
ness had for a moment dissipated, and began to wonder to 
what he was indebted for this unexpected visit. Presently his 
guest observed that there were a great many liars in the world. 
But Edward remembered that David had made a more sweep- 
ing observation to the same purpose, and he had himself dis- 
covered the fact so early in life as to think it too obvious for 
comment. 

During dinner Major Mcllvray said that he had heard so 
much scandal since his return that he was sick of it. Edward 
turned hot again and looked .fiercely across the table so as to 
meet the other’s eyes. But that other went on tranquilly en- 
joying his dinner, and spoke of Colonel Disney and other 
artillery officers whom he had been meeting recently, and of 
the changes and promotions which had occurred among them. 
“ Never believe a word I hear,” he added, with apparent in- 
consequence, “ especially when I know it to be lies.” 

Annesley asked him point-blank if he had heard any rumors 
respecting him. 

“ Heard them all,” he replied, tranquilly. “ Widiculous 
bosh. Disney an old woman. ” 

This was comforting. Once he had despised Mcllvray as a 
shallow coxcomb full of affectations, redeemed by some good 
points. Yet he had such solid stuff in him as refused to be 
turned from belief in a friend. 

“ Wanted you to leave the service,” the Highlander con- 
tinued. “ Wespect you for not giving in.” 

Yet Annesley ’s mind misgave him; Mcllvray might not 
have heard all, he too might come to disbelieve in him. He 
frankly told Mcllvray that he was the only man who fully dis- 
credited the imputations that were cast upon him, and some- 
thing in the unexpected loyalty of this undemonstrative nil 
admirari spirit touched him to such an extent that he let 
something escape of the bitterness which weighed upon him. 

“ Soon live it down. Nothing like pluck,” Mcllvray com- 
mented; and after that the evening passed swiftly and pleas- 
antly, such an evening of |rank companionship as Annesley 
had not enjoyed for years. 

Whether it was the influence of the genial season, or of that 
potent national beverage which expands the hearts and stimu- 
lates the wits of North Britons, is uncertain, but something 
effected a transformation in Major Mcllvray that Christmas- 
eve. The enthusiastic Celt emerged from beneath the thin 
veneer of what for want of a better name may be called the 
languid swell. In those days the masher was not; the beau, 


THE KEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


239 


the dandy, the blood, the buck, and the exquisite had long 
since passed into shadowy memories; but the swell, the heavy 
swell, diffused a gracious fragrance upon the air of Piccadilly, 
and entranced the beholder by the graceful sweep of his whis- 
kers, the calculated curl of his mustache, the slimness of his 
umbrella, the scantiness of his vocabulary, the ' immovable 
gravity of his demanor, and his impenetrable indifference to 
all things terrestrial and celestial. He alone among the sons 
of men attempted to practice the doctrines preached by the 
garrulous sage of Chelsea on the ineffable beauty of silence, 
reducing such speech as necessity forced from him to an ele- 
gant minimum, and diminishing the necessary occasion of 
speech still further, by the simple process of not thinking. 

Major Mcllvray was one of this brotherhood, the lineal de- 
scendant of Alcibiades and Agag, a swell of the first water. 
Though apparently incapable of the rough and virile con- 
sonant r, to which his tongue imparted the feminine softness 
of a liquid w, this evening the whisky, or some more ethereal 
spirit, brought out a fine manly Highland burr in his speech 
with a fine manly interest in things in general, together with 
that indescribable imaginative exaltation which is inseparable 
from the men of the kilt and tartan. His eyes became dreamy, 
they seemed to gaze at far-off things; the breath of the moor 
and the loch seemed to sigh through his strongly aspirated 
speech; he spoke of eerie legends, of haunted corries and pools, 
of wraiths and apparitions, and of the strange gift of second- 
sight. But this point was only reached when they were smok- 
ing a final cigar toward midnight and listening for the carol- 
singers. The less imaginative mind of his host, whose Saxon 
stolidity was dissipated by no more whisky than good-fellow- 
ship demanded, was nevertheless sympathetic to these weird 
themes to an extent that still further stimulated Mcllvray, 
until a listener might have been beguiled into seeing spectral 
forms in mist-wreathed tartans, and playing upon shadowy 
bagpipes, floating by the windows in the silent night, and peo- 
ple of weak nerves would have hesitated to leave that solitary 
firelit chamber for the lonely, echoing corridors of the great 
empty house, in which only two or three rooms were now ever 
occupied. An Annesley in the iron armor of Commonwealth 
days looked down upon the two men by the fire from his frame 
on the wall with a sardonic grin, which might have been im- 
agination or the flicker of the leaping fire-light, but which was 
distinctly perceptible to Mcllvray, who asked the history of 
the grim warrior, and entered with zest into the story pf the 
Gledes worth curse, and was amazed at the present Annesley] s 


24:0 


THE REPROACH OF ANKESLEY. 


proposition of selling it. “1 don’t suppose it would fetch 
much/’ the latter added, but I should like to get rid of it at 
any price. ” 

Major Mcllvray gazed horror-struck upon him and took 
some more whisky; the Cromwellian Annesley seemed to frown 
darkly, while his hand apparently moved toward the hilt of his 
great sword. 

The living Annesley looked at the fire in silence for a few 
seconds and then spoke, as one who longs, yet fears, to disbur- 
den himself of a secret. 

And you are really convinced that it was your brother’s 
wraith you saw that day when the mist lifted from the hill?” 
he asked. 

‘ ‘ Perfectly. He died at that hour precisely. ” 

Annesley jDaused again, then he began to narrate what had 
occurred to him in the previous summer. 

It was on the shores of Lake Leman; he was making an ex- 
cursion with his sisters and brother from Veytaux to the hills 
above it. They had walked far, resting at midday in a pine 
wood; it was now evening, and they were sitting on some 
broken ground just below the Dent de Jaman, making their 
evening meal off bread and cheese and thin white wine pro- 
cured from a chalet hear. All were facing the lake, which 
spread far beneath them, beautiful in the long slanting radi- 
ance of the setting sun; above the lake towered the massive 
pile of the Dent du Midi, its seven snowy peaks rose-red in the 
sinking light. 

‘‘We shall see the Alpen-Glillin to-night,” said Sibyl Eick- 
man, who was one of the party; “ look at the Midi.” 

Thus they were all looking, when Annesley became aware 
of something which made the hair of his flesh stand up. 

He was behind the others and on slightly higher ground, 
thus the falling and passing of a swift shadow breaking the 
western sunbeams touched him alone, and he turned and saw 
— a face. The dark-blue eyes burning with inward fire, the 
black crisp hair, the scar on the cheek were unmistakable, and 
had not changed apparently since the day he last saw them, 
the day of Paul Annesley’s death. 

For it was truly the face of Paul, though clean-shaven, and 
the head of Paul, though tonsured and rising from the dress 
of a monk; the long white robe glowing incandescent in the 
sun’s rich light, the passionless features wearing an unearthly 
calm were those of a monk, yet how should a monk have the 
dark, blazing, blue eyes and scarred face of Paul Annesley? 

Edward Annesley’ s heart stood still and his mouth grew 


THE liEPROACH OF ANifESLEY. 


341 


parched as he gazed, but an instant truly — for the phantom 
figure passed swiftly and silently without pause — yet an instant 
in which his thoughts were so many and so disquieting that it 
seemed an eternity. The white figure, after the one brief 
burning gaze in passing, vanished behind the rocky broken 
ground; but as soon as Annesley could shake ofi the night- 
mare-stiffness which paralyzed his limbs, he too disappeared 
behind the broken mass and saw, or thought he saw, a ghost- 
like figure, sinking rapidly down the declivity of the little 
ravine beneath him, from which the sun had already disap- 
peared. Down the declivity Edward dashed, but the figure 
was nowhere to be seen, a far-off white streak proved on closer 
inspection to be a water-fall. A black fir wood lay in the 
direction the phantom had taken; into this Annesley plunged, 
his blood was up now and he was determined to know the 
cause of this temporary cheating of the senses. The wood 
climbed a slope facing the east; it was nearly night there in 
the thick and heavy shadows. The phantom monk was no- 
where to be seen ; Edward had now made a long and hot pur- 
suit and the distant jodeln of his brother warned him that 
there was no time to lose in rejoining his party, whose way lay 
in the opposite direction and who already bid fair to be be- 
lated. 

So he was obliged to return, pale and breathless and unable 
to give a rational account of his sudden flight; for, upon ask- 
ing the others if they had seen a white monk go by, they 
laughed and told him he had been dreaming and rallied him 
unmercifully upon his distraught appearance. He therefore 
said no more, but descended the hill-side full of disquieting 
thoughts, and from that moment had never opened his lips 
upon the subject till now. 

“ \Yhy should my cousin^s spirit appear to me?^^ he asked 
Major Mcllvray at the close of his narrative. ‘‘In all your 
stories, there was a purpose in the apparition — a warning of 
some kind.^-’ 

“It was not Paul Annesley ^s spirit, returned Mcllvray 
with decision. 

“ Then what was it?’^ asked Annesley, whose nerves were 
still quivering from the memories he had just evoked, and who 
was surprised at the skepticism displayed by so ardent a ghost- 
seer as Major Mcllvray. 

“ That was very strange that he should come as a monk,^^ 
replied Mcllvray, who, in spite of his skepticism, was excited 
by the story, “ very strange. He was not a Catholic even, 
why would he appear as a monk? No, Annesley, it was not a 


2i2 


THE EEPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


spirit, that passing figure. It was a living monk that was 
passing, and his eyes were dark-blue and some mark was on 
his fape, and in that moment he was very like Paul Annesley. 
I have met a man who was very like me. He was in the Hus- 
sars; it was sometimes unpleasant, such mistakes were made. 
Or, I will tell you; you had been thinking, thinking of that 
poor fellow, your cousin, and a bird was fiying past making a 
shadow, and you turned quickly; the sunshine was dazzling 
and your imagination painted the face of Paul Annesley on the 
air. You had been seeing these white Carthusians in France, 
and you were thinking, it may be, of spirits and white gar- 
ments, and so you embodied all in one figure of your cousin in 
a monk^s garb. Yes; that is how it would be,^^ he added 
with an air of conviction as he relighted the cigar, which in 
his excitement had been suffered to go out, “that is how it 
would all happen.’^ 

The explanation, though logical, was inconsistent in a man 
who believed in second-sight and apparitions, and it did not 
convince the more practical and literal mind of Annesley. 

“It was the face of Paul Annesley, ^Mie repeated. “His 
was no common face, and it is beyond possibility that another 
face should be marked with that peculiar scar. I am as cer- 
tain that he looked me face to face that night as I am certain 
that I am the owner of this house. 

Mcllvray smiled and looked thoughtfully into the fire for a 
moment before he spoke. “ That is, indeed, being certain,^’ 
he then said, “ I will dispute no more. But it is strange that 
no one believes like an unbeliever. For you said to-night that 
you did not believe in apparitions.'’^ 

“ Or in the curse of Gledesworth,^^ Edward replied with a 
faint smile. “ It is true, Mcllvray, that nothing is so consist- 
ent as inconsistency."’'’ 

“Well! I will tell you one thing, continued Mcllvray. 
“ If I were in your, place I would never speak of this thing 
again. '’' 

“ I never shall, he replied, frozen back to his usual reserve 
by this unexpected incredulity. The last of the final cigars 
was by this time smoked. The night was wearing on into 
Christmas morning, and they went to bed. 


CHAPTEK V. 

THE VACANT CHAIR. 

Alice soon heard what had taken place in the twilight of 
Christmas-eve. The fact that Mrs. Kickman had been told 


THE REPEOACH OP AHHESLEY. 243 

of Edward Annesley^s intentions toward her daughter, and 
that Sibyl had been obliged to confess to her mother that she 
could not entertain his proposals, was sufficient to insure 
Aliceas knowledge of the whole history. Mrs. Eickman^s nat- 
ure was transparent and sympathetic; all her innocent thoughts 
and guileless hopes and fears were shared with those about her, 
and Alice, upon whom she depended most, enjoyed the most 
ample share of her confidences. Until Mrs. Eickman had 
‘‘ talked things over ” with some sympathetic listener, she was 
unable to get any firm mental grasp of facts. 

‘‘ 1 can not understand Sibyl,^"' her mother commented to 
Alice, “ she was' evidently struck with him from the first. 
Every one noticed it, and we all thought his visits were for 
her. Your uncle was thunder-struck when he asked for you, 
and 1 have always thought, my deRr, and so has Gervase, that 
some little jealousy or pique occasioned that proposal, espe- 
cially as you had never given him the slightest encouragement. 
There are many things against the match, it is true; but Sibyl 
is not so young as she was, and she really is very blue, poor 
dear! Her father and I sadly fear that she will be an old 
maid. And 1 can not help thinging that she cares for him.'’^ 

“ If she did, it would be her secret, not ours,'’^ Alice said. 
“ Let us not discuss it; it is not fair. Perhaps it may take 
place after all,^^ she added, inconsequently, “ especially if not 
talked about. 

Gervase’s anger was too deep for words when he learned that 
Sibyl had deliberately thrown away the chance of happiness 
that he had so carefully plotted and arranged for her. He was 
still firmly convinced that no other marriage would be possible 
to her, and this conviction was confirmed by a carefully guard- 
ed conversation he had with her, a conversation in which, as 
far as words went, she proved more than a match for him. But 
when people know each other as well as this brother knew his 
sister, words are but clumsy symbols of thought, especially 
when associated with such a tell-tale face as SibyPs, a face 
upon which the slightest emotion raised a corresponding change 
of color and outline. He was angry with Sibyl for thus unex- 
pectedly crossing his purpose, but, of course, he was far more 
angry with Annesley, and attributed the failure of his suit to 
some clumsiness on his part. 

‘‘ These good-looking fools do at least know how to make 
love commonly, he thought. He even hinted this want of 
dexterity vaguely to Alice, who quickly made him see that the 
subject was not one to wffiich she would permit any reference. 

With February came the opening of Parliament, and the 


244 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLET. 


fluttering interest of seeing Gervase^s name in the debates, all 
of which Mr. Rickman now read regularly for the first time in 
his life. Politics now ran high at Arden Manor, although a 
singular unanimity of party feeling prevailed; no meal was 
taken without the spice of those magic names, Disraeli, Glad- 
stone and Bright. When Alice went for a few weeks to stay 
with Mrs. Walter Annesley, and accompany her on a short 
visit to London, the same political enthusiasm, centering about 
the same individual, prevailed at her table, and the two ladies 
one night went to the Ladies'’ Gallery and were eye-witnesses 
to the spectacle of Gervase in the act of serving his country. 
Alice subsequently narrated the details of this'moving scene to 
the heron’s parents; told how he sat at ease with folded arms 
on one of the comfortable benches, and listened to a long de- 
bate, sometimes making notes, and sometimes yawning till the 
tears came into his eyes, and how, when a division occurred, 
he solemnly went on his own side and did his duty like a man. 
And somehow the more Gervase was deified by those dear old 
people, the more warmly did Alice feel toward him, and the 
more enthusiastic Sibyl waxed upon the political topics which 
were especially her brother % the dearer both brother and sis- 
ter became to her. 

Then a great sorrow visited that tranquil hearth; Mrs. 
Rickman'’s guileless and simple spirit passed away, after a 
brief, sharp illness. 

Hers was one of those unselfish and unsophisticated natures 
that make little stir and emphasis in life, natures which people 
take for granted, of the beauty of which they are not conscious 
until they pass away, leaving a blank that nothing can fill. 
She always had good health, tind her sudden illness, though it 
surprised every* one as an unaccustomed event, caused no 
alarm in the house, until one night when the doctor said that 
her son must come immediately if he wished to see her alive. 
In her last moments she spoke to Alice of Gervase, and sa,id 
how much she had their marriage at heart, and Alice could 
but say that she would think of her last wishes, and so give 
the parting spirit peace. 

Almost paralyzed by the shock of this bereavement, they sat 
round the hearth the night after the funeral, and each sdmost 
wondered why the familiar figure did not come in and take the 
accustomed arm-chair. Mr. Rickman, aged and broken, sat 
in the opposite chair; Alice was by his side, and Sibyl, exhaust- 
ed by the tempestuous grief to v^hich she had given free vent, 
sat on the rug at her feet with her head supported against 
Alice, who with one hand stroked the daughter^’s feverish 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


245 


cheek, and with the other fondled the stricken father’s hand. 
Gervase sat by Alice in front of the fire, pale and silent as the 
others. 

Like many an only son, he had graciously and as a matter 
of course accepted his mother’s affection, which at times had 
even bored him, and when the final scene occurred, he gave 
little outward token of grief, beyond one brief cry which 
seemed torn from him of “ Now she will never know.” He 
made all necessary arrangements with perfect calm, and sup- 
ported his broken, half-stupefied father through the most try- 
ing scenes without once losing his own self-control. Now all 
was done that could’ be done, life was about to resume its 
every-day aspect, he was to leave them the next morning, and 
there the bereaved family sat, silent with sorrow, and the slow 
minutes dragged heavily on. Alice tried at first to get them 
to talk, and started several commonplace topics; but Mr. Eick- 
man seemed too dazed by his trouble, Sibyl too exhausted, and 
Gervase too full of thought to listen to her, so she desisted, 
and contented herself with the comfort she knew Mr. Eickman 
and Sibyl derived from the silent touch of her hands. Her 
own grief was perhaps as deep as Sibyl’s, though more silent, 
and it pained her a little that the being most dear to the dead, 
Gervase, was the least affected by her loss. His sphinx-like 
face, on which she almost feared to gaze at this time, gave no 
clew to what was passing within, yet she thought that perhaps 
more sorrow than people suspected was concealed by it, and 
wondered at the savage suppression men put upon their feel- 
ings, whenever they are in the least degree creditable to them. 

While she was thus musing, Gervase in his stony silence had 
been realizing what his mother was to him and how irretriev- 
able was his loss. Old memories and events of his boyhood 
had been rising before him, he had almost forgotten the silent 
companions of his grief, when suddenly, stirred by some un- 
usually poignant recollection, he began to sob with vehemence. 

This thrilled through the hearts of the others with pain, not 
unmixed with a comforting warmth. The old man, whose 
grief was beyond tears, stirred, sighed, and shook his head; 
Sibyl sprung up and threw her arms round her brother; Alice 
felt a stronger movement of the heart toward Gervase in his 
sudden abandonment to his grief than she had ever felt before; 
she felt, too, that that moment made her his. 

He quickly mastered himself and recovered his usual self- 
control. Sibyl did the same, and Alice feared to give him the 
token of sympathy that her heart desired, lest he should again 
give way. So they sat on in silence as before; yet not quite 


246 


THE EEPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


as before, for each felt a fresh bond in that spasm of common 
anguish, and presently Gervase left the room in silence, and 
returned no more that night. The next morning he bid the 
three good-bye, and though he said nothing, and sought no 
private interview, he knew by the look in Aliceas face that his 
hearths desire was obtained at last, and went away comforted. 

Alice devoted herself to Sibyl and Mr. Rickman, who was 
too crushed for a long time to take any interest in his scientific 
pursuits, and only went into his study to sit idly brooding in 
his chair. She brought him beetles, plants, and strange stones 
to no effect, until at last she contrived to purchase a very rare 
old coin for him. 

This roused him, his eyes kindled at the sight of the treas- 
ure, which he eagerly took and carefully examined, and Alice 
was amply rewarded for the pains she had taken to hunt out 
and buy the coin by hearing him start off in his old familiar 
fashion on a long and learned lecture on the coin, and the days 
in which it was struck. The next thing was to get some one 
to dispute its genuineness, and this with some diplomacy Alice 
and Sibyl contrived between them; a hot discussion raged, let- 
ters were written in antiquarian journals, and finally a long 
pamphlet was begun. 

Then it was that Mr. Rickman began to talk of his loss, a 
sure sign that the worst sting of it was past; and one day he 
told Alice that he should not live long, but that his one hope 
was'^'to see his son happily married and his grandchild born 
before he died. 

Spring days were growing bright, Gervase had written to say 
he should be at the Manor next day, and Alice fully realized 
that she must now definitely and irrevocably bind herself. 

In the last few years she had deeply pondered the mystery 
of life, and the ends and aims of human existence, pondered 
them as the young never do and never can, save under the dis- 
cipline of heavy sorrow and distracting doubt. Ever since the 
fateful day of Paul Annesley’s death she had ceased to take 
everything for granted, and to expect sunshine and mirth as 
the natural inevitable ingredients of life; she had descended 
into the hell of suffering and there searched deeply for the few 
realities which lie hidden under the multiform masks and 
phantasms which surround eager youth on every side. To 
earthly happiness she had been called to bid a sorrowful fare- 
well, and having rid herself of that expectation of joy which 
makes life so complex, she had been free to consider in those 
silent and dark depths that, after all, life has but one problem 
to offer, how to do oiie^s duty. 


THE KEPKOACH OF ANHESLEY. 


247 


This how had caused her much conflict, conflict continually 
settled by the urgency of some near and obvious duty, which 
circumstance presented to her and which she devoutly wel- 
comed. But now that circumstance seemed to offer her one 
supreme sacrifice, now that a life rich in possibilities needed 
hers and the decisive moment had arrived, the sacrifice seemed 
too hard, the secret inmost self revolted against it. 

She went into the dim silence of the shadowy chur(^; she 
looked at the tablet to Paul Annesley’s memory; she recalled 
her vigil in that church, which ended in the rosy summer 
dawn; she visited her adopted mother^’s fresh grave. Then 
she went to the belfry and conjured back the vision of Edward 
and Sibyl among the Christmas hollies, when Edward had 
asked Sibyl to be his wife. 

This was in the afternoon, and when she returned from her 
solitary pilgrimage, Gervase was just arriving. That evening 
there was joy once more beneath the beloved roof; Gervase 
and Alice were formally engaged. Mr. Rickman sat by the 
fire with a satisfied air, contemplating the figure of Alice at 
the piano accompanying Gervase, who stood near her, on his 
violin. 

Sibyl sat near with clasped hands, and eyes full of tears. 
She refused to interrupt their music with her own singing; 
they were playing so exquisitely, she said. And Aliceas soul 
was at peace. 

They could not be married for some months, and it was 
agreed to say nothing of the engagement for the present. 
They were to live at Arden when not in London, Mr. Rickman 
and Sibyl remaining with them in separate apartments, which 
the size of the house permitted, though of course great changes 
and refittings would have to be made. Gervase had virtually 
retired from legal practice, though his name remained in the 
firm, and he was bound to see those clients who could not dis- 
pense with him. After all, there was not much wrong with 
human affairs, he reflected. His purposes were in the main 
being effected. He had his hearts desire; he could bid his 
soul be merry and take its ease, because much goods were laid 
up for it, and he heard no deep, low voice murmuring in the 
ear of conscience, “ Thou foolP 


CHAPTER VI. 

BEH’EDICTION. 

Edward Ai^nesley paid one or two visits to Arden Manor 
in the course of the spring. Those visits did not materially 


248 


THE IlEPROACH OF ANFTESLEY. 


strengthen the hope SibyFs words had kindled in him at Christ- 
mas; yet the hope survived. 

One day when he was calling in the summer, he expressed 
some surprise at the crowd of workmen he saw, and the com- 
plete upsetting of the house that was taking place. I won- 
der that you stay on in all this turmoil,^'’ he said; why don^t 
you take your father away until the work is finished, Sibyl 

“We like to see to the new arrangements ourselves,'’^ Sibyl 
replied, not knowing that he had not yet heard of the engage- 
ment which all the country-side had fully discussed during the 
last few weeks; for the approaching marriage could no longer 
be kept secret in the face of these preparations. 

“ I don^t like new arrangements, myself, he added, quite 
innocently; “ 1 hate a freshly decorated house. 

Alice changed color and rose with an air of vexation to 
gather a flower; for they were all sitting out-of-doors to avoid 
the inconveniences within. 

Mr. Eickman hereupon began a long digression upon the 
passing of one generation and coming of another, made some 
observations upon marriage customs in various times and 
places, and said that he thought civilization, while tending to 
diminish special wedding ceremonies, increased the actual 
amount of family disturbance involved by a marriage. By 
this time a hazy notion that somebody was going to mar- 
ried had penetrated to Edward^s brain, but he was not pre- 
pared for the shock of Mr. Eickman ^s final words, “ Gervase 
and Alice are to have the main body of the house, Sibyl and 1 
will be content with the west wing yonder. 

Edward looked Alice full in the face with a gaze that stirred 
her new-born peace to the depths and haunted her long after. 
All the blood went from his face, leaving it gray and rigid for 
a moment. Then he looked down at the grass at his feet, 
speechless; the rest were at a loss what to do or say, until he 
looked up again with a little sarcastic laugh and apologized for 
not having offered his congratulations before, observing that 
the intelligence was quite new to him. 

No one enjoyed that scene, and everybody was glad when he 
rose and look his leave. 

“ Gervase he said to himself, as he walked rapidly down 
the lane beneath the green elms, “ Gervase!” Every time he 
uttered that clever young lawyer^s name he ground his teeth 
and struck viciously at the innocent cow-parsley on the banks 
with his riding-whip, and he uttered it many times, and each 
time more indignantly than before, on his way from the Manor 
to the Golden Horse, where his horse was waiting. But why 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


349 


that worthy man should not marry Alice’' Lingard, if she had 
a mind to have him, he could not- exactly say, nor why he 
should have a dim sense of having been outwitted, befooled, 
and cheated by that thoughtful and resolute person. 

Many memories now appeared in a new light and made him 
uncomfortable; the remembrance of Gervase^s strong asser- 
tions that Alice would never recover from PauFs loss, of his 
assurances that hers was not a nature to forget, that it was a 
kind of insult to PauPs memory to think of marrying her, the 
remembrance of those proceedings on Gervase’s part which 
had led him to offer himself to Sibyl and be rejected. These 
and many other circumstances, and particularly a remark of 
Major Mcllvray^s made at Christmas to the effect that Pick- 
man intended from the first to marry Alice, stirred the most 
hateful feelings within him, feelings which he could not easily 
dismiss. 

After all, was it Gervase^s fault if neither of the ladies of 
Arden Manor would accept him? Was Gervase to be censured 
for paying court to the sweetest of women whom he was con- 
stantly seeing, when he knew that she had definitely rejected 
him, Edward Annesley? Yet he was indignant with Alice for 
choosing Rickman; though he could give no reason why she 
should not. Most people would say that Rickman was the 
better match, but all the same he could not admire her taste. 

Feeling betrayed and deserted, relieving his mind by recall- 
ing all the severe and sarcastic sentences he had read or heard 
of the frailty and fickleness of women, and blaming even Sibyl 
in his haste for the false hopes she had rekindled in him, he 
put his horse into a canter and then got him on the short 
. down-turf, and let him have his head until the downs were 
passed and the horse completely blown. 

Then when the horse walked listlessly with hanging head 
through the park, he reflected that Aliceas marriage was the 
only remedy, bitter though it was, for the state into which he 
had fallen; now finally he should be cured once for all of his 
unfortunate attachment. 

That day he left Gledesworth, and, a few weeks later, Eng- 
land, to join his family on a tour through the north of France. 

“ I really think Edward gets grimmer and grimmer,^ his 
sister Eleanor observed one day, during this tour; “ I wish he 
would remember that other people want to be happy if he 
doesnT.'’^ 

“Poor fellow! he has had more trouble than you think, 
Kellie, donT be hard upon him,^^ her mother replied, “ and 
he does everything he can to give us pleasure.'’^ 


250 


THE REPROACH OP AKNESLEY. 


That is just what I complain of/^ replied his sister, he 
never indulges in an original wish. It is always ‘ Just where 
you like, Nell/ with a sort of martyred resignation, or ‘ Well, 
then, we will go to Eouen, 1 have no choice,^ and one may 
change one's mind eight times in a minute without making 
him lose his temper. I could box his ears sometimes. How 
I should hate to be married to a man of such maddening good- 
temper!" 

“ Major Mcllvray is certainly very different," said Harriet, 
in her guileless way. “ Do you remember how he persisted in 
going to St. Peter's last Easter-day, and would have gone 
without us if we had not given in." 

“ Oh, yes! Major Mcllvray," replied Eleanor, blushing in 
spite of her disdainful air, ‘‘ his head was quite turned on the 
subject of monks. He never saw one during the whole of his 
stay in Rome without turning to look at him. The functions 
he went to for the sake of studying his beloved monks! He 
was quite rude on one occasion." 

‘‘Mcllvray rude, Nell?" asked Edward, coming into the 
ropm; “ you must have snubbed him very severely. A worm 
will tutn sometimes. " 

“Well! he was rude. He left us in a shop one day when a 
procession was going by. He rushed out, saying something 
about a monk with a scar on his face, and did not return until 
we had finished our shopping and gone home alone. " 

“ And what did he say about this monk?" asked Edward. 

“ Oh, nothing. He had made a mistake, or some rubbish. 
Come, Ted, do propose something for this afternoon." 

“ Well!" he replied, with a preoccupied air, “ would you 
like to go to church?" 

“ To that sweet old church we passed yesterday? Why not? 
Is there any service?" 

“ Yes, the landlady tells me there will be vespers at four, 
and a sermon. She can not say what kind of preacher, be- 
cause the cure is ill and a stranger is taking his place. The 
choir, she tells me, is heavenly. Her son Armand sings in it, 
which no doubt accounts for its excellence. " 

“ You are becoming almost cynical, Ned; it is quite ref resh- 
ing. AVho is for church, then? We three? I am ready." 

“ So am I," said the younger sister, and they started and 
strolled along the village street in the hot August afternoon, 
keeping well under the shade of the houses and trees. 

When they reached the little old church, Edward said that 
if his sisters did not mind he would wait for them outside, he 
did not feel in the right frame of mind for a sermon. Some- 


THE REPROACH OP AHHESLEY. 


251 


times a very little thing inspires one with a strong and unrea- 
sonable repugnance; such a repugnance he felt at entering the 
dark, cool little church, into which the more devout villagers 
were passing by twos and threes. Was he growing whimsical 
in his gloom, he wondered; what difference could an hour 
spent in a church make one way or the other to him? 

So his sisters went in alone, and, leaving the church-yard, 
he strolled up the hill-side on which the church was built and 
found a shady seat under a pear-tree, whence he could see the 
low-lying village with its pointed red roofs, and the old church 
with its red-tiled spire above it. Below this rising ground 
was a broad level country with long lines of poplars marking 
the high-road, and a tranquil river winding placidly through 
the unfenced fields, where the corn stood yellowing for the 
sickle, and cattle pastured, and the strong oxen rested from 
their toil. Music came faintly from a holiday-boat on the 
river and the voices of loungers in Sunday dress were heard 
now and then in a snatch of song or burst of laughter from 
below, otherwise the silence of August brooded over the wide 
sunny land — even the church-bell was still. 

The level country through which the blue river flowed so 
peacefully, stretched away and away into inflnite distance, till 
its vague blueness melted into the deep azure of the cloudless 
sky. The dreamy fascination of the broad, unvaried levels is 
something like the stronger charm of the wide sea, and the 
silence of the plains awes the listener, though in a different 
manner, as the unceasing music of the waves does; both con- 
duce to reverie, and suggest far-off thoughts. Half an hour 
quickly passed away in the charmed silence, which was scarcely 
interrupted by the organ music and chanting of vespers rising, 
hushed by distance, from the church, and many thoughts 
passed through Edwards's mind as he sat alone in the leafy 
shade. If Alice had married Paul he could have borne it, for 
she loved him; but the idea of this marriage with Gervase was 
insupportable; her face, as he had last seen it that summer 
day at, Arden, haunted him; it was not that of a happy bride. 
Why had she accepted “ that fellow?’^ There was some mys- 
tery which he could never hope to fathom. Everything was 
going wrong, he thought. 

Wherever he had come in contact with other lives he had 
brought trouble; he had deprived Alice of the lover of her 
youth, and she had drifted into this loveless marriage which 
promised no joy. In moments of despondence, the thought 
of PauPs fate was wont to sting him with a keen reproach. 
The outward reproach was more painful to one of his frank, 


252 THE REPKOACH OF ANNESEEY. 

Open-hearted nature than any one suspected, but that which 
continually recurred within, the feeling of having caused the 
death of one bound to him by so many ties, was far worse. He 
did not yield to it; he was not one to waste strength over what 
could not be altered, but there were times when the sense of 
being overshadowed by some malign influence against which 
nothing availed oppressed him, and almost made him believe 
in the Gledesworth curse. At such times he saw the face of 
his aunt, her cold eyes alight with anger, when she pronounced 
the double curse upon him, and only with stout striving could 
he shake off this waking nightmare. To-day was such a time 
of weakness, of painful memories and despondent forecasts. 
If only the dead could return, if he could but see Paul Annes- 
ley alive once more, he thought with a desperate yearning, for 
the futility of which he scorned himself. 

But brooding over the irrevocable was as useless as it was 
weak, so he rose and went back to the church, where, as he 
supposed, some good man was trying to show people the way 
to walk through this dark and devious world. But the ser- 
mon was over, and the music told him that Benediction had 
begun. 

It was refreshing to dip the finger into the holy- water stoup, 
and to change the broad blaze of sunshine without for the cool 
shadows within, where the soft, mellow music rose and floated 
through the incense-laden air. He stole noiselessly in, and 
took up his station near the entrance by a massive pillar cool 
to the touch, and listened to the subdued singing of the 
“ Salutaris Hostia.^ ’ When he raised his head and glanced 
over the church, all was at first dark to his sun-dazzled eyes, 
as religion is to people blinded by the fierce glare of worldli- 
ness. Gradually he made out the forms of women in great 
white caps, children, a man in blouse and sabots, a lourgeoise 
or two, the slim figures of his sisters, fair-haired and conspicu- 
ous in fresh white dresses. Some stray sunbeams here and 
there shot a long, thick-moted shaft across nave and chancel, 
on the high altar the golden vessel containing the Host glit- 
tered unveiled. How like and how unlika it was to a village 
church at home! How like and how unlike were the rustic 
worshipers, people who toiled much and had many sorrows and 
fears and more happiness than they knew, to whom creeds 
were little, and true religion much, people who were there 
from habit and in deference to public opinion, or who sought 
in the quiet and consecrated place balm for bitter sorrow and 
guidance in dire perplexities! Thus far the English villagers 
and the French were alike, they only differed outwardly and 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


253 


in their way of expressing these things. And the priest? He 
could not see this priest's face in the gloom; he would differ 
from the English country parson more widely than the rural 
parishioners of both nations differed from each other. 

A second motet began, and fell with a healing charm upon 
Edward's soothed ears; good thoughts came into his mind, 
vague aspirations after a better life. Stern Protestant though 
he was, he acknowledged that this sacred singing of hymns in 
an unknown tongue might lift up the heart, and be better 
than nothing. Then came the final hymn, incense floated, 
the priest, mounting a ladder and taking the Sacrament in his 
hands, faced the people in the act of benediction; the solemn 
moment had arrived and all bowed down. 

“ The shrill bell rings, the censer swings. 

And solemn chants resounded between.” 

But Edward, while he knelt, looked up full in the face of 
the priest; a face calm with the unearthly calm of the cloister, 
yet marked with the traces of past storm; a remarkable face, 
in which the inextinguishable fire of the eyes belied the unnat- 
ural stillness of the features; a face in the summer of life, 
crowned with dark hair and scarred; a face seldom absent 
from the gazer's memory — the face of Paul Annesley. 

The church seemed to swim in a flood of lurid light; the 
figure of the priest to shudder away as figures do in dreams; 
all became vague save the burning radiance of the deep blue 
eyes, and the golden vessel making the sign of the cross in 
the trembling hands. The chanting of the choir sounded 
faint and strange, pierced as it was by the silver sound of the 
bell; the incense seemed to intoxicate and overwhelm; every- 
thing came to a blank void for a time, and then all was nat- 
ural again, and with a clear gaze, though with a heavily 
throbbing heart, Edward saw in the calm features of the 
priest in the act of benediction, the familiar face he had last 
seen ablaze with passion, and hungry for his life. 

He was quite sure, soberly certain. Those .tremulous hands 
now blessing the people with the holy Sacrament were the same 
then laid with murderous purpose upon him. Those eyes, 
with the startled, pained, intent gaze into his, were the same 
which glowed upon him then with blind fury. He who had 
been dead, was alive again, standing before him; no phantom, 
for never phantom gazed with such human pain, but a living, , 
breathing, suffering man. 


25i 


THE EEPBOACH OF ANNESLBX. 


PuiRT VL 


CHAPTER I. 

OK THE BKIKK. 

The tyrant Time, who wastes and destroys so relentlessly 
in his flight, whose swift onrush no power may stay, when 
once past becomes the slave of thought and imagination. The 
chronicler bids him advance and retire at will; he waves his 
magic rod and it is no more the hour of Benediction in the 
little French village. Five years roll back, and Paul Annes- 
ley, having left his friends at the river’s source, is speeding 
down the hilly path like one chased by demons. 

He was in such a tempest of confused passion on that day 
that he scarcely knew what he was doing; as men are drunk 
with excess of wine, so was he drunk with the excess into 
which unchecked passions always run more or less. He had 
never tried to bridle himself; he could not do so now; the evil 
in him had grown to such mastering might. As men drunk 
with wine can give no clear account of their actions when 
sobered, so it was with him. He never knew afterward pre- 
cisely why he left the party of friends at the spring, or what 
had been his exact purpose in following the downward path in 
such hot haste; he could only recall, as one recalls the inci- 
dents in a dreadful dream, a chaos of fierce despair within 
him, lighted as by a flash of fire by the cheery sound of a 
man’s voice singing in the careless gayety of a heart at ease — 

“ There we lay, all the day, 

In the Bay of Biscay 0.”j 

The blithe singing kindled a dreadful impulse in his heart 
and stimulated his mind to unnatural activity. It made him 
remember the nature of the ground lower down. Something 
whispered to him not to overtake the singer, but to dash with 
silent swiftness into the wood and wait hidden beneath the 
trees, where the slope of the ground, steeply descending to the 
path on the broken brink of the rocky scarp, gave an advan- 
tage in a sudden attack. A grim voice told him that no one 
would know, the path was so slippery with moss and so broken 
at the verge. They had marked the spot in their upward 
course in the morning, and said how easily an accident might 


THE REPROACH OF AHFTESLEY. 255 

occur— a false step, a fit of abstraction, then a dash on the 
rocks below, and thence into the deep green river. There 
could be no afterward, as was said of the prisoners in the 
Bastile. 

He had not long to wait beneath the sighing pines; the ob' 
ject of his fierce passion drew nearer, tracked by his snatch of 
careless song, and suspecting nothing. The light-hearted 
singing stung the silent listener to keener purpose. The song 
ceased suddenly, when Paul sprung tiger-like from th6 bank 
upon his prey, and with the impetus given by the spring add- 
ed to the strong pushing of his arms, tried to hurl him into 
the depths below. 

But Edward, though caught unawares, was taller than his 
cousin and stronger, his bodily powers were better trained, 
and he grappled at once with his unexpected adversary, whom 
he had not time to recognize, though his breath was hot upon 
his face; but his words revealed him — words which Paul forgot 
as soon as uttered, but Edward never. 

The struggle was no light one. The strength of unbridled 
fury was pitted against the instinct of self-preservation; it 
seemed as if the terrible embrace could never end but in the 
death of both cousins. At last in the dreadful whirl Edward 
succeeded in fiinging his cousin from him, in what' direction 
he could not tell, and in the rebound he fell himself backward, 
striking his head against the rocky ground and losing con- 
sciousness. 

Paul went over the brink, grasping with wild instinct at tlie 
air, and blindly catching the birchen bough which hung over 
the river, projecting far from the rocky wall. 

The shock of his rapid descent and the immediate peril 
which he faced, checked the fierce current of his fury and re- 
stored him to the self-consciousness which passion of any kind 
abnegates; and then ensued a moment, the keenest and most 
terrible that can come to mortal man; the moment in which 
the veil of passion and prejudice is lifted from the eyes of the 
soul, and all things stand naked and clear as in the searching 
gaze of thg Judge of all men. 

The bough, quivering beneath his weight, bounded and re- 
bounded like some fearful balance between heaven and earth, 
nay, between heaven and a yawning, hungry hell; every bound 
threw him wildly in the air, loosened the grasp of his clinging 
hands, and threatened to hurl him into the depths below; but 
one more bound and he must go; the fate which lie had pre- 
pared for another had overtaken himself. He knew by the 
agony with which his strong young life shrunk from its sudden 


256 THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 

and violent extinction, how dreadful was the crime he had 
meditated against that other young life kindred to his own. 

At supreme moments like these. Eternity asserts itself, the 
shadow. Time, practically ceases, and the thoughts and experi- 
ences of a life-time crowd into one brief moment by the clock. 
All Paul Annesley^s life rose before him during one rebound 
of the slight spring which held him suspended above certain 
death. A flash of wild remorse lighted the deepest recesses of 
his soul; only to unlive the recent past he would have given 
all that went before had that been possible. A few minutes 
before, life had seemed so bitter that death was a coveted 
boon; but now, in the near view of death^s grim face, life had 
an unspeakable sweetness; his vigorous vitality revolted against 
dissolution, his soul shuddered at a hereafter vague with ret- 
ribution, and he, who did not pray before, sent up a wild cry 
to Heaven for help. Then it was that his agonized gaze 
caught the face of G-ervase Eickman looking down upon him, 
and he heard his voice entreating him to hold on a little longer. 
But no entreaty could stay the slipping of the boughs through 
his burning hands; help must come at once if he was to be 
saved. One more vibration of the overstrained spring on which 
he was poised sent him upward, and the downward rebound 
was so strong that the bough cracked with a shock that jerked 
his now tremulous hands from their strained chriging; he felt 
the sliding of the last twigs through his bleeding palms, a wild 
whirl, and the shock of water smiting his body as he met it 
lengthwise, then the end, darkness, and with it calm. 

The silent darkness could not have lasted long, for when 
life returned to him, he found himself drifting face upward 
upon the surface toward the French shore; the current had 
carried him past the little promontory beneath the spot where 
he fell; stiff, bruised, and dazed though he was, he struck out 
instinctively, though he could not swim, and kept himself up 
till he saw some overhanging sallow branches, grasping at 
which he pulled himself out of the rapid current on to a 
shelving shore, which made a little ledge at the foot of the 
precipitous cliffs. 

He drew himself up under the sallow bushes and sought in 
his pockets for brandy, which he carried for the benefit of the 
excursion party. His handkerchief fell out as he did this, 
and, a thought striking him, he threw it into the stream, which 
carried it further down, where it was afterward found, to- 
gether with a guide-book inscribed with his name. 

The brandy revived him, and he presently found that he was 
uninjured, though bruised and strained; falling, as he did. 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


257 


into the center of the stream, he had escaped rocks. He re- 
membered now that Edward had fallen in the opposite direc- 
tion to himself, and was no doubt safe, and then he took the 
decision from which he never afterward swerved. He had ap- 
peared to die before the eyes of Gervase Rickman, he was virt- 
ually dead, and it was best so; there was no occasion for him 
to come to life again. 

After resting awhile under the bushes, which effectually 
concealed him from the searchers, he found that the little 
ledge upon which he landed led up to a broken cleft in the 
cliff, scarcely large enough to be called a gorge, but sufficient- 
ly marked to form a rude ascent, up which he climbed. 
Having reached the summit, he struck across the mountainous 
country at right angles to the river. In those remote places, 
nothing human was to be seen, save one or two peasants at 
work or guarding flocks, and these he carefully avoided, like 
the fugitive he was. So he stole cautiously along until the 
thunder-storm broke and the deluge of rain which descended 
made his soaked clothes appear natural and the loss of his hat 
nothing unusual. 

The fury of the Alpine storm was as nothing to him after 
the spiritual cataclysm through which he had passed; he 
walked on bareheaded beneath the awful splendor of the 
jagged lightnings and the rushes of rain; now the heavens 
opened above him and let down sheets of blue and purple 
flame, discovering vast mountain prospects and the distant 
plains of France in their lurid glare; now the deafening crack 
and roar of the thunder, which rolled round him and crashed 
among the hills till they seemed to rock and split in the 
agonizing shock; reached his ears; then the flood of rain on 
the ground blazed like molten metal beneath his feet, and 
chains and forks of Are flashed before him; then came a crash, 
which made the solid earth shake beneath him and the mount- 
ains shudder above. He scarcely heeded the majesty and ter- 
ror of the spectacle, but walked on in a dazed despair, with 
no aim but the vague one of escaping from the past and cut- 
ting himself off from the memory of living men. In the 
apathy of exhaustion which succeeds overstrained feelings he 
scarcely heeded the tongue of fire which with a hissing sound 
split a tree a little in advance of him. The tree, green a mo- 
ment before, was black and charred when he passed beneath 
it. But afterward, it seemed little short of a miracle that he 
had not been struck, as he must have been had he passed it a 
few minutes earlier. When the storm abated he reached a 
little lonely farm, and there took shelter. 


258 THE EEPROACH OP AHNESLEY. 

As a storm-driven tourist, his appearance excited no sur- 
prise, and having had his clothes dried and cleansed to some 
extent, he procured a straw hat from the farmer and set for- 
ward again after supper. 

“ Que DieU' 'Ooiis accompagne, monsieur , said the farmer, 
in reply to his farewell, and the pious greeting touched his 
troubled heart. 

Does God accompany murderers? he asked himself, as he 
dragged his weary limbs aimlessly onward, followed by the 
demons of remorse and despair. 

The farmer had taken him for a Frenchman, his accent was 
so pure and his idiom so ready; he thought it would be well if 
others did the same, because as a Frenchman he could more 
easily conceal himself. 

Night was falling by this time, and large, lustrous stars were 
looking pensively from the clear sky. They seemed to his 
shaken spirit to be accusing him. His way lay across a hilly 
region, and in his mental preoccupation the farmer’s clear 
directions for the hourgade at which he meant to pass the 
night became confused, and he took the wrong path, keeping 
westward nevertheless, by the aid of stars and a pocket-com- 
pass on his watch-chain. 

While trudging wearily and doggedly on, as if fleeing from 
an invisible spirit of justice, he remembered with a sort of 
rapture that he had not killed his cousin after all, and his 
heart rose to Heaven in silent unutterable thanksgiving. It 
was possible to live now that his hands, though not his soul, 
were clean of the awful stain of murder; in the other case 
neither life nor death would have been endurable; there would 
have been no way to fly, as he had realized when poised on 
that awful balance, inflnite wrath and inflnite despair.” 
Doubtless a merciful Power ruled the destinies of men, and to 
him, Paul Annesley, had shown a mercy beyond the ordinary 
working of natural laws, had miraculously rescued both soul 
and body from the pit of hell. 

Deep and solemn thoughts moved dove-like upon the troubled 
waters of his soul and wrought peace and order in those chaotic 
depths. The stars shone in increasing multitudes above him; 
it was long past midnight, his limbs dragged more heavily, 
neither town nor village was within sight. The air was chili, 
the ground soaked; he could not lie down in the open. Pres- 
ently he found a rude shed within a wood, a shelter for char- 
coal-burners or wood-cutters. Beneath the rough roof it was 
fairly dry and partly littered with bracken. Here he lay down 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


259 


and slept a dreamless sleep till the crimson morning looked in 
and touched his eyes. 

Then he waked, and wondered at the beauty of the long 
crimson shafts that shivered upon the tree- trunks, the mystic 
peace which rested on the unstirred leaves, the fresh radiance 
of the dew, the glory and the purity of the hour when the new- 
born day springs forth in its eternal youth. He enjoyed the 
splendor only for a moment; the sight of the rough boards of 
his unwonted sleeping-chamber called him back to the bitter- 
]iess of life. 

To wake to a new sorrow is bitter, but to wake to a new sin, 
worse. They were doubtless sleeping, he thought, and when 
they woke would think of him as one dead, and as such would 
draw a pitying veil over his frailties. He could now think of 
Alice as Edward^ s wife without pain; his wild passion was 
swept away in the torrent of spiritual anguish. Ever since the 
day on the lake with Alice, he had felt, though not acknowl- 
edged, something more bitter than the fact that she loved Ed- 
ward — the fact that she must always despise him, that pity 
must henceforth be the softest feeling he could expect from 
her; her presbnce had become agony to him, though he clung 
to it with a strange persistence. He did not like to think of 
the mother he was leaving childless, but deep down in his in- 
most heart the memory of the home she had made so miserable 
spoke strongly against the chance of going back to live with 
her, and helped to persuade him, together with his disgust of 
life, that it was but a just atonement to Edward to seem to 
die that his cousin might have his inheritance. 

The morning air was sharp, and called him unrested from 
his temporary shelter. He walked on till he reached a cottage, 
and asked his way to a village, where he found food and rested 
till afternoon. 

He was very stiff and weary, though scarcely conscious of 
bodily sensations in his inward distress; he walked on, never- 
theless, choosing by-ways and unfrequented districts, avoiding 
railways and high-roads, thinking thus to escape the chance of 
recognition. 

No distinct plan had yet formed itself in his mind; he had 
only a vague desire to flee away and be at rest, a dim hope that 
continual bodily movement would quiet his inward fever. He 
walked on, therefore, in spite of increasing fatigue and pains, 
till night, rested in a village inn, and rose unrefreshed next 
morning to continue his way. 

It was Sunday morning; the September sun was shining 
warmly on the ripening grapes in the vineyards on the sunny 


260 


THE REPEOACH OF AHNESLEY. 


slopes of that hilly region in the Vosges; the sedate tinkle of 
church bells was heard in the stillness; now a troop of pretty 
maidens and prematurely aged matrons were going to some 
village church; now a pleasure-party, in an odd, clumsy 
vehicle, half cart, half carriage, was jogging along the dusty 
causeway to a neighboring farm or hamlet^; every creature, 
human or otherwise, seemed gay and innocent, only he was 
out of tune, an anomaly in a bright world. 

He reached a pretty hamlet among the vineyards in a fold 
of the hills; it was now very hot, a heavy languor was creeping 
over -him, and, seeing the church-door open as if to invite him, 
he went in. The music was not beautiful, but it soothed him, 
together with the shade and coolness; he scarcely noticed that 
the choir sung through their noses, nor did the rest of the 
congregation. 

Keligion was a subject to which Paul Annesley had given 
little attention. He did not like the very pronounced speci- 
men his mother affected; it appeared to act as a stimulant 
upon all the least agreeable elements in her character; it had 
struck him very early in life that she was always most religious 
when most vile-tempered, that she contemplated with evident 
enjoymeijt the future reprobation of all those who differed 
from her. His French school was conducted by a Protestant, 
and French Protestantism is not a seductive, religion, especially 
to the young. Paul often thought that there might after all 
have been some excuse for St. Bartholomew^’s-eve, if the 
Huguenots of those days resembled the Calvinists of his. 

But his religious instincts were all awake and quivering with 
painful vitality to-day, and when the priest began his simple 
sermon, he was listening with hungry eagerness for some clew 
to the maze of misery in which his life was involved. Though 
he scarcely heard what the old priest said in his pure and sim- 
ple French to his children,^ ^ something in his way of saying 
it and something in his face convinced him that here was one 
who had found a clew to the mystery of life. A simple, kind- 
ly life such as this priest’s would be a sweet and restful thing, 
he thought. 

But when the office was ended, and he found himself again 
in the open air, sitting on the low wall of a vineyard a 
stone’s-throw from the church, idly watching the bright-eyed 
lizards darting over the stones in the sun, something the gen- 
tle old priest had said seemed to illuminate his past life. 
“Lose thyself and find Me,” a sentence from an old book 
Paul had never read, an eclio from a still older book he had 
read, quoted by the preacher, kept repeating itseK in his brain. 


THE KEPEOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


261 


The pendulum of his mind, thus strongly touched, swung to 
the other extreme, and with all the intensity of his nature he 
yearned to sacrifice himself as unreservedly as he had once 
striven to please himself. 

While he was thus musing, the cur6 approached him, a tall, 
bent, white-haired figure in black cassock and broad hat, and 
stopped on his leisurely way to the presbytery, not unwilling 
to have a little chat with a stranger, a pleasure seldom enjoyed 
in that remote hamlet. He had seen the troubled, passion- 
worn face among the well-known faces of his little flock, and 
something in the strained wide gaze had touched him. Here, 
he thought, was a man acquainted with sorrow, that strange 
birthright of humafiity. 

Paul, replying to his salutation, raised his eyes from the 
lizards and looked into a venerable and kindly face, lined with 
years and care, but peaceful and sweet, and felt a growing 
confidence in him. 

Monsieur was tired, the priest surmised, after a few words 
had been exchanged; the day was hot; would he come into the 
presbytery and rest awhile in the cool? 

Monsieur was glad to do so, and soon found himself strolling 
slowly by the side of his new acquaintance through A e narrow 
lane between the vineyards toward the presbytery a white 
house with green Venetian shutters, and shaded in front by a 
great walnut-tree. 


CHAPTEK IL 

BUKIED A LIVE. 

The interior of the presbytery was very cool and clean and 
bare; Paul was glad to sink into a wooden elbow-chair by the 
window, on the sill of which was coiled the one spoiled and 
pampered Sybarite of the establishment, a great white Angora 
cat, equally idolized by the cure and his housekeeper. Mile. 
Franqoise, who was clattering about the bare brick floor laying 
the cloth for dinner. 

She was extremely glad to see monsieur, she said in her high 
shrill voice, it was pleasant for M. le Car6 to see a new face 
sometimes. It was a most fortunate thing that he was not 
dining at the chateau to-day, and still more fortunate that she 
had killed a fowl; that was doubtless the inspiration of some 
saint. 

M. Paul was duly grateful for her hospitable intentions, and 
acknowledged the skillful cooking of the omelet added to 
the festal Sunday dinner expressly for him; yet he so troubled 


263 


THE REPKOACH OF AHHESLET. 


his host by the injustice he did to the good fare set before 
him, that he was obliged to apologize for his want of appetite, 
saying that he was unwell. Nevertheless, good manners, with 
the aid of a potent home-made cordial which Father Andre 
administered to him, enabled him to rouse himself to an inter- 
esting conversation, in the course of which Paul discovered 
that, besides speaking a purer French than most rustic clergy, 
his host h^ evidently seen something of the world, and was 
both well-read and well-bred. His bright’ dark eyes looked 
into the world with a pensive cheerfulness, his features were 
finely cut, and the long white hair flowing beneath his skull- 
cap finished a pleasing and venerable aspect. 

PauFs black beard, at that time an unusual ornament on 
an English face, his crisp curly hair, his dark-blue eyes and 
his fluent Parisian French were all compatible with his host’s 
supposition that he was a Frenchman; though his conversa- 
tion occasionally suggested points of view distinctly foreign. 
The fact of liis being on a walking tour further pointed to a 
foreign extraction or education. 

After dinner, they adjourned to the garden, where Frangoise 
had placed wine and fruit on a table beneath the great walnut- 
tree, and '^hence they could see the hamlet dotted about the 
hill-slope atnid vineyards and orchards. They are so good,^^ 
Father Andre said, meaning his parishioners, “ poor children, 
their troubles are great. Next week we have a wedding; a 
good brave girl in that cottage yonder by the plane-tree, who 
supported her widowed mother for years, is to marry a nice lad 
from a farm a few miles above in the mountains. I shall miss 
the dear child; yes, I shall miss her.^^ 

“ You will still have a large family, Paul commented, a 
little moved by this, to him, novel way of disposing of domes- 
tic feelings. 

‘‘ Yes, yes, but I shall regret Madeleine, he replied, and 
then he rose and apologized for^.leaving his guest while he 
went to see one of the “ children,*’^ who was sick. 

He did not return until after vespers, when he found Paul, 
who had been dozing heavily since his departure, very ill, too 
ill to move. He was helped to bed, where he remained for 
weeks; carefully nursed by the priest and his housekeeper, 
both of whom would have thought it criminal to send him 
elsewhere or to trust him to other hands, while they could 
tend him. 

Next morning, after a night of fierce pain, Paul, finding 
that he had rheumatic fever, desired Fran9oise to give him his 
clothes, from the pockets of which he took such papers and 


THE REPROACH OP AKHESLEY. 263 

letters as gave any clew to his identity, and, tearing them with 
difficulty, bid the housekeeper burn them on the hearth before 
his eyes. Having seen this done, he became delirious. 

“ The good God has indeed sent us a guest, Fran9oise,^^ 
pid her master, on entering the room shortly after and look- 
ing upon this spectacle, “ poor fellow! He is no doubt a good 
Catholic, though a foreigner; I was struck by his devout air 
yesterday. And he is in trouble.'’^ 

“ But his hands. Monsieur le Cure,'’^ returned Frangoise, 
pointing them out. ‘‘ And what terrible language is he speak- 
ing?^" 

It was the bloody mark of his torn hand on the white home- 
spun coverlet which had set the patient raving a few minutes 
before, and now he was pointing at it, and crying out about 
Cain and his ineffaceable brand in a way which would have 
chilled his listeners" blood had they not been ignorant of En- 
glish. 

“ He hurt his hands in climbing; he wore gloves over some 
kind of dressing yesterday,"" replied the cure, bidding Fran- 
goise remove the stained sheet and bind up the hands. Then 
he did what Paul had foreseen, turned out his pockets in search 
of his name and address that he might communicate with his 
' friends, and found nothing but a pocket-book full of gold and 
notes, a well-filled purse and some jewels of price, which he 
put aside in a safe place. 

In his lucid intervals Paul knew how severe his illness was, 
yet he did not think he should die, much as he now wished for 
death. For since he had twice been miraculously preserved, 
there was no doubt some purpose to be fulfilled in his life. 
Perhaps only the purpose of expiation. God"s mark was upon 
him as upon Cain, so that none could slay him; he was 
. doomed to live. 

But as he grew better, he began to form schemes for turn- 
ing the life of which he was so weary to some useful purpose, 
and when the doctor told him one morning that all danger was 
past and time and good nursing alone could pow help him, 
he, knowing well what illness like his leaves in its track, faced 
the probability of becoming a cripple, a cohdition which, 
throwing him eventually upon charity for support, might lead 
to the discovery he feared. 

As soon as he could hold a pen he wrote to Captain Mcll- 
vray, one of those HighJand officers whose expensive amuse- 
ments had so nearly ruined him in the d^fys of his poverty, and 
pledging him to secrecy, explained that civilizedd life had be- 
come insupportable to lim, aiid that, wishing to break com- 


264 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


pletely from all past connections, he had taken advantage of 
an accident to disappear. Mcllvray had lost money to him on 
the eve of his Swiss journey, and not having means of payment 
at hand, had given him his acceptance at a few months’ date. 
Paul therefore desired him to forward this sum, with a hun- 
dred pounds more; and, as Mcllvray ’s bill would be found 
among his effects and presented for payment, he gave him 
papers for the whole amount dated before his supposed death, 
so that Mcllvray could claim payment of the balance dne to 
him from the executors. 

Captain Mcllvi’ay, being just then under orders to go to 
India, had little time to spend on other people’s affairs, and 
he did not feel called upon to prevent Paul Annesley’s virtual 
suicide. The money therefore safely reached, the hands of 
Father Andre, together with a letter to Paul, in which Mcll- 
vray ventured upon a brief remonstrance with him. Thus, 
with Mrs. Annesley’s diamonds and a valuable ring intended 
for Alice, Paul was in possession of over a thousand pounds, 
sufficient to keep him from want. 

He spent many weeks of acute pain and heavy sickness in 
the httle clean bare guest-chamber of the presbytery, seeing 
nothing but the sky through the white* curtained window, the 
crucifix in black and ivory on the white wall, the wood-fire 
crackling on the hearth, and four figures, which changed and 
melted into one another like figures in a dream; the doctor 
feeling his pulse and talking in a low voice, but not to him; 
FranQoise in her white cap and sabots, and a kind of phantom 
Fran9oise with a different nose and stouter figure, who proved 
to be Pauline, her married sister; and the* cure, clad in a rusty 
black cassock, with his gray locks beneath his skull-cap. 

The latter knelt by his bedside by the hour, praying aloud 
in a low monotonous voice, very soothing to the patient, who 
looked at him with the long wondering gaze with which an in- 
fant’s eyes follow its mother’s movements. The women also 
varied their ministrations, especially at night, by telling their 
beads aloud; but their prayers sounded more business-like 
than the father’s, and it became a sort of occupation to the 
patient to speculate upon the slipping of the beads through 
their fingers in a given time. 

When he was able at last to sit up, propped with cushions 
at the open window, it was warm still October weather, and the 
country was full of the cheery sounds of the vintage. He 
could see the vintagers at work on the sunny slopes, men, 
women and children all busy and happy, singing and laughing 
from morning till night. The^ cure, with liis cassock tucked 


THE REPROACH OP AHHESLEY. 


265 


up, busy in his own little vineyard; Frangoise, with the 
ubiquity and ceaseless industry of which only French women 
ap capable, was out gathering and carrying great baskets of 
ripe grapes, the choicest clusters of which found their way to 
the sick-room. Paul, in his languor, thought he would like 
to live this peaceful life forever. 

Yet Father Andre found time to read to his patient and talk 
to him, and by some mysterious process, aided by one or two 
broken hints from the evidently suffering man, discovered 
much of what was passing in his mind. Paul, sundered by 
the strange mental experiences of sickness, in which weeks 
have the effect of years, for his past life and all its affections, 
and feeling born again into a different world, clung to his 
gentle host with the dependent reverent affection of a child; 
the priest on his part loved the younger man, as only those 
cut off from natural ties can love strangers, and the two looked 
at each other often in silent moments, wondering at the bond 
which was being formed between them and at the experiences 
which had brought each to that remote village presbytery so 
far from the original sphere of either. Thus the cure^s con- 
versation, which was more interesting and less tiring to his 
patient than reading, gradually became of a more personal 
nature and full of anecdotes. 

It seems, monsieur, that you were not bred a priest 
Paul said one day, after one of these narrations. 

“ It is true,^^ he replied, looking quickly up and then down 
again; would you like to know why I left the world, or 
would it be tiresome to listen?” 

Paul replied that it would interest him above all things. 

Because,^^ observed M. Andre, taking a pinch of snuff and 
seating himself on a stone near the patient^s chair, which was 
placed in a sunny, sheltered nook in the garden, “ I have 
sometimes permitted myself the liberty of thinking that a sor- 
row like mine may have befallen you. Pardon me if I am 
mistaken. 

His name, he continued, was Armand de Fontigny, a name 
of historic fame, as Paul knew. His education was not au- 
stere; though a Catholic, he looked upon religion merely as a 
thing it was among the family traditions to respect. His youth 
was as gay as rank, wealth, good looks and good health could 
make it, in the gayest city of the world; but, though devoted 
to pleasure, he was not vicious; he only wished to be thought so. 

He became assiduous in his attentions to the wife of a friend. 
He did not love her, he did not think that she loved him, but 


266 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


the vanity of each was gratified by the idea of a conquest over 
the other. 

The husband was unsuspicious, until one day when some 
report reached his ears. That night De Fontigny met the 
lady at a masked ball. It was carnival time; the now suspi- 
cious husband was there also, and followed them about mask^, 
until he had no doubt of their identity. Then he shot the 
lady dead. 

This shot, as he learned during the official inquiry upon the 
death, was intended for her supposed lover. 

She fell at De Fontigny^s feet, his face and clothing were 
splashed with her blood. A second shot followed — the man 
had turned his weapon upon himself. De Fontigny stood 
among the masqueraders in the brilliance of the ball-room, his 
ears ringing with the gay dance music and the sound of the 
two shots, motionless with horror, while the dancing broke up 
in wild tumult and the blood of his two victims stained the 
parquet. 

Father Andr6 paused, trembled, and with an apology left 
his guest. He did not conclude his narrative till next day, 
when he spoke of his misery and remorse, his disgust with fol- 
lies which had resulted in such tragedy, his flight to the clois- 
ter, and its calm round of prayer and toil, which, though it at 
first soothed him, did not suffice him. He longed for activity 
and usefulness, and after having been sent out on one or two 
occasions to take the place of some sick parish priest, was ap- 
pointed to this little parish of Eemy, where, as Paul saw, his 
life was a course of labor, prayer, and service to his parishion- 
ers, of whom he was truly the father. 

“ And have you found happiness?’^ his listener asked, at 
the close of the narrative. 

“Not happiness, my dear son; that is not of this world, but 
healing and peace. 

Paul looked up with moist eyes at the lined and pensive 
face before him, and his decision was taken. 

He told his kind friend his whole history from beginning to 
end, and added his determination to enter the religious life. 

Father Andre listened with sympathy, and advised him to 
pause and consider well before he entered a life for which he 
might have no vocation. He reminded him that as yet he 
was not even a Catholic. 

But PauFs resolution was taken with the fiery intensity of 
his nature. The constant sight of the crucifix during his days 
and nights of agony had consoled and strengthened him, as 
that august sight always does; it had further wrought with the 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


267 


morbid tendency inseparable from combined physical and 
mental misery, to produce in him the strange religion which 
Carlyle professed, but like the wind-bag he was, did not prac- 
tice, and named the .Worship of Sorrow. 

Like Father Andr6, Paul felt that joy was impossible to one 
whose past was so criminal, nothing was left for him but pain; 
he now rushed into the extreme of self -mortification. He re- 
mained some months at the presbytery, until he was quite re- 
covered, sharing, as far as a layman could, the occupations of 
his host, liking the peaceful life, for which he felt himself un- 
worthy, and instructed and curbed by his spiritual father, who’ 
at last resigned him to the community with whom his novitiate 
was to be passed, not without regret and deep heart-searchings. 

The fire which had burned so fiercely on the altar of human 
love, now blazed with stronger fervor at a loftier shrine, and 
for a year or two Brother Sebastian passed through a strange 
and exciting phase of spiritual experience; his austerities pro- 
duced their natural result — visions and ecstasies — all the 
strange tumult of overwrought religious feeling, brightened 
and ennobled by the golden thread of pure and undefiled re- 
ligion which ran through it all, and which runs through so 
many strange' and mysterious human vagaries. So entirely 
had he broken with his former life, that it seemed sometimes 
to the fervid Friar Sebastian as if Paul Annesley were the 
phantom of some half-forgotten dream, and the people he had 
known and loved, fancies as insubstantial. Even the mother 
he had so truly loved, in spite of the misery she had made in * 
his home, faded away. A Madonna in the convent chapel 
with a look of Alice attracted him strongly, and sometimes set 
him dreaming of those far-off phantoms, and then he saw 
Alice married happily to Edward and forgetful of the trouble 
he had cast upon her youth, and his heart ached for the mother 
who mourned him as dead. But not for long; such thoughts 
were driven away, if not by gentler means, by knotted cords. 

Brother Sebastian had only once traveled far from the 
Hominican convent in which he had taken refuge from the 
^torm of life, before he was sent to serve the church in which 
Edward Annesley saw him during the temporary disability of 
the cure, and on that first occasion the brief encounter by the 
Lake of Geneva occurred. 

Edward looked upon that first meeting as the illusion of a 
mind overstrained by the perpetual thought of a man whose 
death he had caused. That brief vision was made more ghost- 
like and unreal by the fact that Sebastian had put off his 
friar's black cloak and hood, and was wearing only the white 


268 


THE KEPKOACH OF ANNESLEY. 


tunic and scapular when he passed Edward; when he saw him, 
by immediately putting on the black mantle and hood, he be- 
came inconspicuous, and thus \anished more effectually than 
he could have done, had his dress remained white. 

Not until Edward Annesley saw the living Paul standing at 
the altar before him with that wide gaze of mingled pain and 
dismay, did he realize what his supposed death had cost him. 
Eor reason with himself as he would, the thought that Paul 
had actually met his death at his hands was an abiding grief. 
Though he did not grow morbid over this acute memory, it 
made him very sensitive, and lent the keenest sting to those 
calumnies which made him practically a social outcast. There 
were moments of dejection in which he did indeed attribute to 
himself part of the guilt which had apparently resulted in the 
death of the would-be slayer; brief moments reasoned away 
painfully enough by the reflection that when he flung Paul 
from him, he did not know in which direction either of them 
would fall; that he was not sure whether Paul had flung him 
or he had hurled Paul, since when he recovered consciousness, 
he could remember nothing but PauPs sudden attack and 
furious words, followed by a wild whirl, in which he had tried 
to wrest himself from the hands which were pushing him over 
the brink, and had at last fallen senseless. Gervase Eickman 
alone knew all. He had seen the attack from a higher and 
distant point in the path, where the bend of the river-bank 
projected beyond the trees which obscured the spot lower 
down, and had arrived in time to see both cousins fall. 

If Ed ward ^s lips had not been sealed by loyalty to the sup- 
posed dead man, it would have been a heaven of relief to him 
to have published the story on the house-tops, and thus dis- 
burden himself of a secret it was pain and grief to keep. 

All this heavy burden fell from his heart on that Sunday 
afternoon at the sight of the lost Paul holding the Sacrament 
and blessing the kneeling people; such a deep divine relief 
came to him after the first shock had passed that he could 
scarcely think what to do next. His sisters, who had not^ 
known their cousin so intimately, and who were but children 
at the time of his loss, did not recognize him: only in coming 
out one said to the other, “ Of whom did the priest remind 
you? He is very like somebody.^’ 

Then their brother joined them and walked only part of the 
way back, telling them that he had seen a friend whom he 
wished to overtake and should perhaps be away for an hour or 
two. 


THE KEPROACH OF AFTKESLEY. 


269 


When he returned to the church, he found that the priest 
had already left it, having disrobed with amazing rapidity. 
The sacristan seemed to be a surprisingly stupid rustic; he 
could not understand Edwards’s good fluent French, learned in 
the school at which Paul had been with him, and his own 
patois was so strong that it was difficult for Edward to under- 
stand him. At length, however, it came out that the strange 
priest was stopping at the presbytery, which was situated in a 
spot to reach which such complicated directions were neces- 
sary, that Edward bid the sacristan conduct him thither per- 
sonally. But this could not be done at any price, not even for 
a gold ten-franc piece, the saeristan^s duties at the church 
were so urgent. At last some one was found to act as guide, 
and the presbytery was eventually reached. The convalescent 
cure received the stranger with great urbanity, and talked so 
much that it was difficult to get a word in edgeways, and still 
more difficult to convey any ideas to the cure^s understanding 
after the words had reached his ears. Finally Edward heard 
that Brother Sebastian (the name slipped out at an unguarded 
moment) had finished his duties at Vauvidres and was gone, 
no one knew whither. The truth that Paul was trying to con- 
ceal himself was now obvious. 

Edward returned to the inn, told his mother privately what 
had occurred, and of his intention of finding the fugitive friar 
if possible, and set forth on his chase, accompanied by his serv- 
ant, who spoke French. 

By the aid of this man he found out that the brother had 
left the village on foot immediately after benediction. 

It would be tedious to follow in detail the chase which 
ensued. Neither railway nor main high-road approached that 
secluded district, and a few inquiries showed that the friar had 
not gone by the river. It was therefore best to follow him on 
foot through by-ways and woods, which Edward did when the 
direction in which Paul left Vauvieres had been ascertained. 
Annesley’s professional training here stood him in good stead; 
with a fair map and a thorough mastery of topographical de- 
tails, together with the aid of his man Williams, whom he 
sent on a parallel route to his own, and bid inquire diligently 
along the road, he traced the friar to a convent in the town of 
Volny. He then applied to the superior of the community for 
information, which was politely refused in such a manner as 
to leave no doubt on his mind that Paul was in the house. 
This he watched with such assiduity that both he and his man 
incurred the suspicions of the authorities, and were obliged to 
desist after a few days. 


270 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEf. 


Nevertheless, they still hung about the town, frequenting 
churches and making inquiries about preaching friars to no 
effect. Though Volny is a large town, it is as well to save 
trouble to the learned reader by recommending him not to look 
on the map for it, or for Vauvieres or Bourget, because perhaps 
he will not find them. 

Edward was beginning to think the chase hopeless, since the 
only marks of identity in the fugitive were the name and the 
scar; for the garb was a concealment rather th^n an aid. One 
evening he strolled out of the town when the dusk was falling, 
racking his brains for devices to reach one who had cut himself 
off from every possible means of communication with the outer 
world, and rejecting every scheme that presented itself in 
turn, when he came to a dray laden with wine-casks and par- 
tially overturned in the road. One of the draymen had been 
hurt by a cask rolling upon him, the other was tearing his hair 
and reproaching all the saints in heaven for not coming to his 
aid. A few peasants, attracted by his cries, were extricating 
the horses and righting the dray. Edward took off his coat 
and helped them. 

While he was thus occupied he did not see what was hap- 
pening to the injured man, who had been laid aside upon some 
sacks. But when he had done all he could, and was standing 
in his shirt-sleeves wiping his face and looking in the now 
moonlit dusk at the righted dray, he saw a figure bending over 
the injured man, and bandaging his head. It was that of a 
Dominican friar. 

His heart gave a strong throb, he stepped into the shadow 
of the way-side trees and watched the friar's ministrations in 
silence. 

Presently a light cariole came up, the patient was lifted into 
it and driven slowly away, the friar gave his benediction to 
the departing procession of dray, cariole, and friendly peas- 
ants, and turning, went swiftly on his way in the opposite 
direction, without observing that motionless figure in the 
shadow. 

In a few minutes Edward's quick footsteps were close upon 
him and reached his ear; but he did not turn. Edward was 
side by side with him when he spoke. 

“ Paul," he said — ‘‘ Paul Aunesley." 

^ Then the friar turned with a suppressed cry. He recognized 
Edward's face in the w^hite moonlight, and looked swiftly in 
every direction for some way of escape, but, seeing none, stootl 
still, with folded hands, head bent and downcast eyes. 

“At last!" cried Edward, laying a vigorous hand on each 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


271 


of his shoulders. “ What a cha^ you have given me! Paul, 
pu did a wrong thing and a cruS thing. All these years we 
thought you dead. One word from you would have made all 
the difference. 

This gaunt frame quivered beneath Edward^s strong touch; 
the haggard face, which seemed terribly altered in that cold 
white light, became agitated — the calm mask worn for years 
was suddenly rent away from the reality beneath; and the 
gazer^’s heart was pierced to the core by this changed aspect, 
through which his old familiar friend was still so visible. 

He could not realize that Brother Sebastian was the living 
reality and Paul Annesley the faded dream. The monkish 
garb seemed to him but a piece of masquerade which must be 
put off, and with it, perhaps, the lines of suffering in the wan 
face. 

The friar^s deep blue eyes gazed spell-bound and full of un- 
speakable feelings into the familiar and once so hated face, on 
which, as well as on his own, the record of troubled years was 
now written, but he could utter no word, though his lips 
moved slightly; he could scarcely think — the sight of Ed- 
ward ^s honest face, graver and manlier, if so much sadder 
than in his young days, stirred him so deeply. 

“ I-thought you dead all this time,^^ Edward continued. 

You donT know what it is to think your best friend died by 
your own hand. 

The cloistered life faded like a dream from Sebastian^s 
mind, those phantom figures from the past, which he had so 
long banished, grew real and lived again at the sound of these 
wholesome words; his unnatural restraint gave away at last, 
natural human tears sprung to his eyes, but he could not 
speak — his cousin ^s reproach was so keen and yet so different 
to what he had expected. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE WEDDING-DRESS. 

The time was drawing near to Alice Lingard^s wedding- 
day; every little detail of her future life was arranged; Rick- 
mau^s letters, in spite of the busy life he was leading, and the 
important political events in which he was concerned, were 
growing more frequent, more tender, and more difficult to 
answer. 

One' autumn evening a box arrived at the Manor. Aliceas 
heart sunk when she saw it, for it contained her wedding- 
dress. 


272 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


Sibyl was slightly pained tip see how little Alice seemed in- 
terested in the dress; she had some difficulty in persuading her 
to try it on, but at last succeeded after much coaxing on her 
part, and much persuasion from the dress-maker busy at,work 
in the house. 

“ If only Gervase were here!^^ exclaimed Sibyl, when the 
weighty business was achieved and Alice stood before a 
cheval-glass, tall and statue-like in the long satin folds, her 
hair crowned by the white wreath, and the veil floating mist- 
like about her in the pale twilight. “ Wait, and I will fetch 
papa. Don^t stir one inch for your life."’’ 

“You are cold, miss,^^ said the dress-maker, for Alice was 
shivering; “ we must hope for a sunny morning for the wed- 
ding. To be sure, it is chilly to-night.'’’ 

“ Very chilly,” replied Alice, listening to the fitful moan 
of the wind and the patter of rain on the glass. “ How pleased 
Sibyl is!” she was thinking. For Sibyl had not been pleased, 
but rather shocked, when the engagement first took place, 
and only the spectacle of her brother’s happiness had recon- 
ciled her to it by degrees. 

It took some minutes to find Mr. Eickman, minutes during 
which Alice stood motionless before the spectral reflection of 
her tall white self, forbearing to move, partly because of the 
pins, which marked some alterations, partly in obedience to 
Sibyl. 

When Mr. Eickman finally arrived, the dusk had grown so 
deep that he asked for candles, the delay in lighting which 
kept Alice still longer in her constrained position, so that at 
last, when she was properly illuminated, and the old gentle- 
man was scrutinizing her through his glasses, with murmurs 
of profound satisfaction, she suddenly fell fainting full-length 
on the carpet, rumpling the satin folds, and crushing wreath 
and veil indiscriminately together. 

“ Standing long in one position often produces that effect,” 
Mr. Eickman observed afterward; “ to move but one limb re- 
laxes the tension of every muscle.” 

“ It’s the most dreadful luck,” whispered the dress-maker 
to the maids, who had assembled to look on, “ and the veil all 
crushed, and the dress spotted with the water they threw over 
her face!” 

The next day Sibyl and her father drove into Medington to 
make some of the innumerable purchases connected with the 
wedding, but Alice excused herself from accompanying them. 

“ It is odd,” Sibyl said, when starting, “ that so much mer- 
chandise seems necessary to unite two loving hearts. When I 


THE KEPKOACH OF AHHESLEY. 


273 


marry I shall run away; then thete can be no fuss, and money 
will be saved/ ^ 

Zure enough, Raysh Squire said, when he saw her drive 
through the village, smiling all over her bright face, “ any- 
body med think she was a-gwine to be married, instead of 
toother. I never zeen such a maid!^^ 

Alice set off for a walk when the carriage had started; she 
passed through the fields above the church-yard, and saw Raysh 
at work, putting the final touch to three little ffresh-turfed 
graves. 

‘‘Prettier made graves than they you never zeen. Miss 
Alice, he observed, with pride. “ A power o^ thought goes 
into the digging o'’ they little uns, and shepherd he would hae 
^em all put in separate, say what you would. I hreckon he 
made no count o’ the laiibor he giv’ me.” 

The little graves went to Alice’s heart; she knew what a 
bitter blank they made in her friend’s home, populous as that 
little home still was, and she went on her way, wondering at 
the mystery and sadness of life, and the silent heroism that 
bears so many burdens. 

Hubert bounded on before or trotted at her side, unvexed 
by mysteries, and keenly conscious of the pleasure of a ramble 
over the downs. Some children were picking blackberries 
along the field-hedges, their faces happy and stained with pur- 
ple juice; they too were unvexed by moral problems. 

It was a chill, gusty autumn day, with wan sun-gleams and 
flying scuds; storm-driven gulls flashed their bright plumage 
against the black curtain of rain-cloud; belated swallows 
skimmed the ground, fluttering against the wind; Nature was 
not ill one of her sweetest moods, yet she was fascinating 
rather than sad. 

“ If only one had not to live,” thought Alice, “ if one 
might mingle with Nature and be still.” 

After some apparently aimless wandering, she caught sight 
of what she was seeking, the figure of Daniel Pink, moving 
heavily against the wind, which shook his beard and lifted the 
cape of the old military great-coat he wore over his smock- 
frock. He was driving some sheep into a wattled fold, and 
she waited till he had finished and finally secured his flock by 
binding a hurdle to its staple. Then he went under the lee of 
a hedge, and, taking off his coat, set to work to point some 
ash-spars with his bill-hook. Alice then approached him with 
her usual friendly greeting, and the lines on his rugged face 
softened. He folded his coat and placed it on the bank as a 
seat for her. 


274 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


‘‘ ^Tis fine and loo here/\]ie said, and you med set down 
and hrest/^ 

So Alice sat down and watched the white chips fiy, with 
Hubert crouched at her feet, while Rough, the shepherd ^s dog, 
now partly superannuated and assisted by a young and inex- 
perienced dog, whose vagaries were a source of much trouble 
to him, looked at the deer-hound with a mistrustful glance. 

“ Raysh has just finished turfing the little graves, shep- 
herd, she said; they look very peaceful.-’^ 

He made no reply, but looked away toward the church-yard, 
which he could not see, and went on chopping. 

“ You said once,^^ continued Alice, “ that you gave up 
fretting for them all at once; that you could bear anything 
now.'’^ 

A.y” he replied, stopping in his work to look inquiringly 
at her. 

“ There is so much trouble in the world, Alice continued, 
“ sometimes it seems so difficult to bear.^-’ The tears sprung 
to her eyes, and her words died away in a sigh. 

The shepherd sat down silently on a pile of ash poles, and 
thought for a few seconds. 

“ Kj,” he replied at last. “ When they dree was took, I 
couldnT zim to bear it nohow. The pretty ways of "’em, and 
the little maid that knowing! The biggest wasnT only dree 
year old. TheJ^ knowd avore I’d a turned the earner in the 
lane, they two, and they’d hrun to meet me when I come 
home. ‘ Vather, vatherl’ they’d cry out, and dance that 
pretty; and the littlest, he’d get his mother or his sister to hold 
en up. Vust time I come home and they dree lying still and 
cold in-doors, I pretty nigh went dead. After that I couldn’t 
abide to come home no more till all was abed. One night, 
lambing-time, a month after I’d a buried them, I was out 
alone atop of the down. Then I took on thinking, thinking 
of they dree and their pretty ways I could never see no more, 
and how they was took ofi avore we could look hround and 
all, and I took on that dreadful I zimmed to be tore asunder 
inside, and I couldn’t zim to hold up noways. I thought how 
I was never one for drink, and always done my best. There 
was others done wrong, and their children was spared; there, 
it did zim that hard! Then, when I was like to rive asunder 
with what went on inside of me, I zes to meself, ‘ Stand up, 
Dan’l Pink, and be a man! You’ve a had many mercies, and 
what be you to cry out agen One above when trouble is zent?’ 
Then I zaid over the Belief, and it zimmed comforting, and I 
got up and done zommat for the ship.” 


THE REPROACH OP AHNESLEY. 275 

Daniel Pink did not say all this straight oS, but with many 
breaks and pauses, and much apparent casting about for 
words, symbols which are hard to come at when one is not 
accustomed to handle them and turn them over and about at 
will; sometimes he stopped in the middle of a sentence with 
a catch in his breath, sometimes he looked at Alice for sym- 
pathy, sometimes away over the windy landscape. But at this 
point his manner altered; he turned his face from Alice and 
seemed to forget her presence and his own identity and spoke 
in a deeper key, more fluently and with less country accent. 

“I sat on the steps o^ the hut there, he said, pointing to 
a wheeled and movable house; “ I was afeard to goo in and 
lay down and leave the yowes, and I fell a- thinking o’ they 
dree again, and the littlest that pretty! Then it came over 
me agen as though I should rive asunder, and 1 shet my teeth 
and bended my head down and groaned, and held my arms 
tight over my chest to keep it from bursting. ’Twas the full 
o’ the moon, and the grass white with hrime. I seen all as 
plain as daylight, the ship feeding, and the new-dropped lambs 
moving about, and the stars above, when I looked up. Then 
out of the shade cast by the hill I seen a man coming tow’rd 
me.” 

The shepherd paused; his face changed, a solemn rapt ex- 
pression came over it; he was evidently forgetful of all around 
him. Alice held her breath and left watching his face as she 
had been doing, covering her own with her hand and bending 
a little forward, her arm stayed upon her knee. “ A man,” 
he continued, “ tall, vurry tall and fine-made, and dressed 
like St. John in Arden Church window, with long curled hair 
and light shining round his head. 1 came over that still and 
hushed, like when the wind falls at zuuzet, and the sea’s like 
glass and the barley stands without a shake. 1 couldn’t so 
much as stand up, I was that holden. I looked and looked, 
as though I could never leave off looking. The ship took no 
notice, and he passed through them, slow and solemn, with 
never a sound. I seen the red marks on the hands and feet; 
but when he was quite nigh, I could only look at the faiice. 
’Twas the look in the eyes that went through me. 1 caint say 
what that look was like, it made me that happy and quiet. 
The figure passed that close, the blue dress, the color of the 
sky, nigh touched me. I couldnT turn when he passed be- 
yond; I was holden. But ’twas no drame — the ship was mov- 
ing about and feeding and the lambs bleating as plain as day. 
When I could turn, there was the moon shining bright as day, 
and the frost on the grass and the stars above, and nothing 


276 


THE EEPROACH OP ANHESLEY. 


more. Then I zimmed that happy and light and peaceful, I 
knowed there was nothing 1 couldnT bear after that!^^ 

The shepherd ceased speaking, but continued his rapt gaze 
straight ahead, thinking thoughts that Alice dared not inter- 
rupt by words. 

At last he rose, took up his hill-hook and went on pointing 
his spars. 

“ And nothing seems hard to bear now, shepherd?’^ she 
asked presently. 

“1^0, miss, nothing zims hard no w. I med hae a power o' 
trouble yet, plase God I lives long enough, but I Tows I shaint 
never fret no more," he replied. 

The wind had sobbed itself to rest now, and the sunset was 
blazing through great bars of rending cloud in marvelous 
splendor. Alice's feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground as 
she sped homeward, deeply touched and lifted up in heart, 
thinking thoughts that no words could express. 

Daniel Pink could not even read, he had scarcely half a 
language with which to clothe his simple thoughts; the mighty 
Past was to him a blank, the garnered treasure of the thoughts 
of ages and the beautiful songs of great poets, the glory of 
Art, and the refinements and adornments of human life, were 
all denied to him. Yet Alice's heart bowed in reverence be- 
fore him, he had that which great prophets and mighty kings 
had desired in vain. Could she not emulate his simple resig- 
nation? she wondered. She had now reached the church-yard, 
and leaned on the low wall to look at the three little graves. 

Daily she had prayed to be a loving wife to Gervase Pick- 
man, and daily the thought of the marriage, now the most 
obvious of duties, had grown more terrible, until the simple 
incident of trying on the wedding-dress had overpowered her. 
If she could but tear Edward out of her heart and her heart 
with him, she would willingly have done it. But since the 
unfortunate day in the summer, when the news of her engage- 
ment burst upon him, her peace had vanished; she could not 
forget his face, his silence, and his one swift glance into her 
eyes. Yet here on this very spot he had offered himself to 
Sibyl. 

It was too late to hesitate; she was as much bound as if actu- 
ally married; and her heart was incapable of treachery, espe- 
cially to Gervase, and to the old man who hung upon her with 
such trustful dependence. To marry this man, whom she liked 
but could not love, was plainly her duty, to swerve from it 
was cowardice; marriage was in her eyes a sacrament; love 
would be doubtless given with it. Peace had come to Daniel 


THE KEPKOACH OF ANKESLEY. 277 

Pink, would it be denied her in due time? She would wait 
patiently and shrink from no duty, however hard. 

Alice little thought that at that very hour, a friar, in the 
narrow solitude of his cell, was driving her from his mind with 
literal scourging of the flesh, as if an image so wholesome and 
so suggestive of good, could in any wise harm. ♦Truly peace 
and self -conquest come in various guise, yet only by one way, 
the way of Faith and Duty. 

No vision shone upon Alice, nor did she use bodily pain to 
conquer what seemed invincible; but at last she walked home 
through the darkening fields with perfect peace in her heart, 
confident that however her soul might now shrink, she would 
have strength to be true at the difficult moment and to the 
end. When she saw SibyFs sweet face on reaching home, she 
returned her smile frankly without inward' self-reproach, list- 
ened with due interest to the account she gave of the after- 
noon^s business, and commended her purchases with sufficient 
animation. Yet she was glad that Sibyl left her for a few 
hours'’ study; and when she was gone, she sunk into an arm- 
chair by the drawing-room fire thankful to enjoy the luxury of 
solitude. 

Mr. Rickman was busy in his study; the servants were in 
another part of the house, which was very still, so still that 
the hall-clock^s ticking was audible and every little movement 
in the rose-tree trained by the window asserted itself. Through 
all this stillness, she presently heard a carriage drive up and 
the door-bell ring, and started into a listening attitude. “ Ger- 
vase!’'’ she murmured, remembering that he had said he might 
run down any day for a night or two. 

It was not Gervase; for he did not open the door and walk 
in, but waited while a servant came from some remote attic, 
whence Alice heard her descend in the silence and pass from 
corridor to corridor, her footsteps echoing in Alice’s strained 
ears, and finally open the door just as the visitor had raised 
his hand to ring again. 

Why should Alice’s heart beat so fast? She could not hear 
more than a faint murmur of a man’s voice when the door 
opened; she did not know what she expected. But when the 
maid tripped in and said, Captain Annesley wishes to see 
Miss Lingard,” she thought that she had known who was there 
from the first, and, with a presentiment that some crisis was 
approaching, bade the maid show him up. 

She heard his step on every stair, and was glad of the grow- 
ing dusk to hide her face; the day when he first came six years 
ago and saw her in that very room in the spring sunshine re- 


278 THE EEPROACH OF AHKESLEY. 

turned to her mind with all its overwhelming associations. 
She could not remain still, but rose from her seat; it seemed 
as if she would have herself in better control standing than 
sitting. 

So he came in and found her standing on the rug with the 
fire-light upon her, and something in her face not easy to de- 
scribe, though she received him calmly, saying that she was 
surprised to see him, having supposed him to be on the Con- 
tinent. 

“ I wished to see you alone, he said, with an air that im- 
pressed her and inspired her with dim foreboding. “ 1 have 
something to tell you that will surprise you. 

“ No bad news, I hope?’^ she asked, faintly. 

“ You once asked me to tell you all that I knew of my cous- 
in’s disappearance,” he continued. “ I could not do so then. 

I can now. 1 believed that you loved him, Alice, and that is 
how I interpreted your reason for refusing me. What hap- 
pened on that afternoon, you said, made it impossible for you 
ever to marry. ” 

“ But I am going to be married,” she urged, in a faint • 
voice. 

“ You are engaged to be married,” he corrected, and per- 
haps you do not care to know what happened on that after- 
noon. But you must know. It is Paul’s wish. He is still 
living. He sends you a message, and a letter.” 

‘'Paul? Paul? Not dead? Oh, no!” she cried, passing 
her hand before her eyes as if to clear away the mist rising be- 
fore them. “ What does this mean?” 

“He is not dead. I have found him,” continued Edward; 

“ he has told me all — all that passed between you. ” 

Alice trembled and looked at him appealingly. Why did he 
come thus to trouble her peace, and why did he speak in that 
hard voice? It seemed as if he were there to judge her. 

“ Stay,” she replied; “ I know more than you think. I 
heard you talking. I was under the trees when you passed. 
You made Gervase promise not to tell what had occurred, espe-'^ 
daily not to tell me.” 

“ Do you know why I wished you not to know?” he asked, 
almost fiercely. “ I wished to spare you. I thought you 
loved that poor fellow. I was told so.^^ 

“ What I felt then is now of no consequence,” returned 
Alice, coldly. “ But since I asked you to tell me what you 
knew of that unfortunate afiair, I must certainly listen.” 

“ Thank you. In the meantime I will deliver Paul’s letter 


THE REPROACH OF AKNESLEY. 


279 


to you. Perhaps when you have read it you will think that 
my story is unnecessary.'’^ 

Alice took the letter with a shaking hand, and though it was 
now too dark to read it, she made out the superscription in 
the once familiar hand by the fire-light, and trembled very 
violently. “It is terrible,^’ she faltered, “to read a letter 
from one you have so long thought dead. 

“ It will be better to read it, nevertheless,^^ he replied, re- 
morselessly. Then, seeing a taper on the writing-table, he 
lighted it, placed it near the trembling, agitated woman, and 
withdrew to the other side of the room, looking out of the 
window into the gathering night — the window in which he had 
first seen her. 

Alice was a long time reading that letter, though it was not 
very lengthy, and was written and worded clearly enough. 
The garden and the down beyond it sunk into deeper and 
deeper shadow while she read; the trees lapsed into solid black 
masses; a stray, wan star, peeped here and there through rents 
in the flying clouds, and then a watery moon rose, and trans- 
fused the black shapes with changing glory. 

The silence deepened, the hall-(3lock ticked steadily through 
it. Edward continued motionless at the window, Alice mo- 
tionless in her chair at the table, some coals fell together in 
the grate, a bright flame leaped up and cast its fitful radiance 
over the room, and over the two silent figures; SibyPs cat 
stirred comfortably in her slumber by the fire, and gave her- 
self a cozy hug. Alice wished almost that she had never been 
born. 

At last she spoke, and there was some leaven of contrition, 
some air of a convicted offender in her manner. 

“ Captain Annesley,'’'’ she said, in a clear and even voice, 
“ I once did you a great injustice, an injustice I can never re- 
pair. It was not wholly my fault. I was — misled.^-’ 

Her voice changed and deepened with this last word. Ed- 
ward turned and saw her face clearly illumined by the taper 
burning before her, and the trouble in it divided his heart like 
a sharp sword. But there was more than trouble in her face, 
there was something he had never pictured upon those gentle 
features, a mingling of horror and indignation. 

“ Oh, Alice he cried, advancing toward her, “ Alice 

“ Hush!’^ she replied, waving him back. “ Do you know 
what this means? He was to have been my husband in a few 
days. He was my dearest friend.'’^ 

He stopped, thunder-struck, not immediately perceiving that 


280 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


she was speaking of Gervase, but smitten through with the 
keen anguish in her voice. 

“ What have I done?^^ he asked. “ Oh, Alice! you did 
not love him,” he added, thinking that his coming had only 
plunged her into deeper, perhaps irreparable sorrow. 

You should have spoken that day in the garden,^’ she con- 
tinued, in a low, half-suppressed tone; “ I had a right to know 
then. You should have spoken. 

“ How could I speak?^^ he returned, in surprise. “ He 
was dead. What passed was our secret. Paul has spoken 
now; but even — he stopped, he could not say that he had 
come that night only to save her from the misery of marrying 
a man so false as Gervase Eickman. 

Alice had risen in her trouble and stood in the full blaze of 
the fire-light. This is the only home I have ever known 
she said, looking round the familiar room, and wringing her 
hands together in her desperate pain. And though I did not 
love him, I trusted him. Oh! how I trusted that false man!^^ 
she added. 

She had not heard the door-bell ring, swift steps passing 
through the hall and up the echoing stair, and now, as she 
faced the door, she was startled to see it open and disclose the 
smiling and confident face of Gervase Eickman. 


CHAPTEE IV. 

FACE TO FACE. 

Bright visions passed before Gervase Eickman^s mental 
gaze as he drove from the station in the chilly dusk, dreams 
in which love played a great part, but ambition a greater. 

In winning Alice he had won the desire of his heart, a desire 
that would never have grown to such mighty proportions but 
for the difficulties which hedged it round. The wedding-day 
was so near now, that sometftng of the coolness of certainty 
pervaded his thoughts of it; he had even got so far as to pity 
himself with a pity tinctured by self- commendation for the 
sacrifices his approaching marriage involved. He knew that 
he ought to look higher than Alice Liugard now; personally 
she was all that even his wife should be, but, although her 
family was superior to his, she brought him no aristocratic 
connections, such as he needed. The marriage might even 
hinder him from strengthening such connections as he had 
already formed, while, as for her little fortune, which had once 
been so desirable an object to him, it would scarcely make any 
difference to a man whose successful financial operations were 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


281 


daily assuming grander, though more perilous proportions. 
His marriage was indeed a most virtuous act. Alice was not 
so young as she had been; life had taken the freshness from 
her beauty, such as it was, and stamped her features with an 
indelible record. Yet he well knew that beauty had never 
been her greatest charm, but rather an inward something, 
which, when it touched men^s hearts, bound them to her with 
irresistible force; a certain air about her, a way of moving, 
smiling, speaking, or being silent, which filled the surround- 
ing atmosphere with grace, and forged adamantine chains 
about the souls of her lovers. Virtue, in Rickman^s case as 
in others, would bring its own reward. For a deep, seldom- 
heard whisper from the very depths of his heart told him that 
while he clave to Alice he had not quite done with his better 
nature; if he let her go, he would part with the last restraints 
of conscience, a thing, it must be confessed, which is a terrible 
inconvenience in a career of political ambition. 

That ambition, insatiable as it was, nevertheless was in a fair 
way of being gratified. Scarcely a year had passed since he 
was returned for Medington, yet he had effected much, espe- 
cially during the recent battle over the Conservative Reform 
Bill. In and out of the House he had done yeoman^s service, 
recognized as such by the leaders of the Opposition. He had 
been ubiquitous; attending and speaking at meetings here and 
meetings there, adding fuel to the fire of political agitation, 
which at that time blazed fiercely enough, and he had been 
particularly useful at a by-election in which his party won a 
seat. Mrs. W alter Annesley had renewed many of her former 
aristocratic acquaintances in late years, and had given him ex- 
cellent introductions, of which he had made the best use. He 
was well adapted for climbing the social ladder; he had good 
manners, tact, and observation, fluent speech and ready wit, 
and was absolutely impervious to the impertinence of social 
superiors, when it suited his purpose, otherwise a person whom 
it was on the whole wise to respect. He was a brilliant 
speaker, his voice daily improved, and no amount of labor ex- 
hausted him. 

Thus, with a long vista of political success opening brightly 
before Rim, and the prospect of domestic happiness filling the 
near distance, Gervase drove up to the door of his father’s 
house that autumn evening, and, knowing the family habits 
by heart, went lightly up the stairs to the drawing-room, 
where he thought to find Alice alone. 

When he opened the door and saw her. standing with that 
strange look and despairing gesture in the mingled lights of 


282 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


the fire and the solitary taper, though something in her aspect 
gave him a shock, he supposed her to be alone; it was only 
when she spoke that he made out the dark figure of Edward 
Annesley confronting her in the dimmer light of the further 
part of the room. 

“ Gervase,"'^ Alice said, gazing full upon him, without any 
salutation or preliminary whatever, “ when I told you on the 
down that day that I had refused Edward Annesley solely be- 
cause of what you witnessed on the banks of the Doubs six 
years ago, why did you tell me that 1 was quite right 

These two syllables, which had so often echoed painfully 
through his conscience, were uttered with so keen an incisive- 
ness that they cut into him like knives. Even his ready re- 
source and iron nerve failed him for the moment, and he 
stood speechless, looking involuntarily from her to Annesley, 
as if for a solution of the enigma. The latter returned his 
gaze with a stern, unbending contempt that failed to sting 
him in the anaesthesia which paradoxically results from such 
excessive pain as Alice’s look gave him. 

‘‘ Why,” continued Alice, with a passionate scorn which 
told all the' more from its contrast with her usual demeanor, 
“ did you tell me that afternoon on the scene of Paul’s death, 
that it would be to Edward Annesley’s. discredit to reveal what 
actually occurred?” 

“Discredit,” he returned, recovering his self-command, 
and taking refuge in a quibble, “ was not the word, if 1 re- 
member rightly. We are not alone, my dear Alice; you 
seem to be a little upset.” 

She looked at him with increasing contempt. “Why,” 
she continued, “ did you assure me that Edward Annesley 
loved your sister and had never more than a passing fancy for 
me?” 

“ My dear child, do consider times and places a little. If I 
told you that, it was doubtless because I believed it. I was 
not alone in taking that view of the situation. ” 

“ Why,” she went on, “ did you persuade Edward Annes- 
ley that I loved his cousin?” 

“ I was not alone in that opinion, either,” he replied with a 
forced smile. “ Captain Annesley,” he added, “ perhaps you 
will do me the favor of going into another room. Miss Lin- 
gard, as you perceive, is not in a condition to receive visitors.” 

“ Quite so,” Edward replied, taking his hat, “ I will choose 
another time to finish my interview with Miss Lingard. My 
presence,” he added, with unwonted sarcasm, “must be ex- 
cessively embarrassing. ” 


THE REPROACH OP AHHESLEY. 


283 


‘^No, Captain Annesley/^ said Alice, in the same incisive 
tones, you will not leave this room. While you are here, 
that man, false as he is, dares not deny the truth of what I 
say."" 

Gervase turned very pale, and all the sweetness seemed to 
vanish out of his life forever. It was difficult to vanquish this 
resolute spirit, but he had the gift of knowing when he was 
beaten. He recognized the hard fact that nothing, not even 
his strong, imperious will, could now win Alice back. He 
heard the knell of all his better aspirations in her words. 

“ Stay, Captain Annesley,"" he said, quietly, “ since Miss 
Lingard wishes it; though lovers" quarrels are not usually con- 
ducted in public. Perhaps, Alice, I may be permitted to ask 
why these reproaches are suddenly hurled at me in the pres- 
ence of a third person?"" 

‘ ‘ Because that person has suffered the most from the web 
of falsehood and intrigue you have been weaving all these 
years,"" she replied. 

“ And he has come to complain to you,"" returned Gervase. 
“ Don"t you think, Annesley, it would have been more manly, 
to say the least of it, to tax me openly with whatever you have 
against me?"" 

‘‘I have taxed you with nothing,"" he replied. I came 
here with the intention of replying to a question Miss Lingard 
asked me some years ago, but have not found it necessary to 
do so. I have simply handed her a letter which explained all 
she wished to know."" . 

“ You were in the confidence of both cousins,"" continued 
Alice, and you abused th^ confidence of both. You were in 
my confidence, and you abused that."" 

“ By loving you and purposing to make you my wife."" 

“ Which you will never do,"" she replied,. drawing a ring 
from her finger, and giving it to him. 

Edward, who, since Gervase"s request to him to leave the 
room, had been divided between the feeling that the request 
was reasonable and a desire to protect Alice, whose wish that 
he should stay showed a certain fear of being alone with a man 
so treacherous, now decided that the only becoming course for 
him was to go. He had already reached the door, when Sibyl, 
who had just been informed of her brother"s arrival, opened it 
and came in. 

“ Captain Annesley!"" she exclaimed, expecting to see Ger- 
vase only. “Oh! Gervase — Why, what is the matter, Alice?"" 
she added. 

“ Dear Sibyl,"" a’eplied Alice, suddenly calming to more 


284 


THE KEPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


than her wonted gentleness, “ we have just had a severe shock 
Paul Annesley is not dead/^ 

“Not dead!^^ replied Gervase. “Why, I saw him die. 
Alice, you do not know what you are saying.’’^ 

“ It is quite true,’^ added Edward; “ he was swept out of 
sight and washed ashore alive. I have seen him. He will 
probably be in England before long. He has become a Eoman 
Catholic, and entered a religious order, and a great deal has 
to be done before he can obtain permission to visit his mother, 
as he wishes to do. 

Sibyl listened with eager interest, as if her life depended on 
Edward^s words, and then on a sudden she burst into tears. 
“ Oh! Edward, she sobbed, “ the truth must come out now 
and your name will be cleared forever. I always knew that 
this hour would come.’^ 

“ You always believed in me, Sibyl,” Edward replied, with 
a slight quiver in his voice, while taking the hand she frankly 
offered; “I think I never had a truer friend. I only care 
really for what my friends think of me. 

Sibyl only smiled her gentle smile in reply, though she did 
not quickly recover her calm, and Alice looked at them with a 
strange expression not devoid of reproach. 

“ This is nonsense,” said Gervase; “ if Paul Annesley didnT 
die, why in the world should he disappear?” 

“ He was tired of his life,” Edward replied. 

“ He thought,” Alice was explaining, “ to make atonement 
to the friend he had injured — ” 

“ Alice,” interrupted Edward, “ that is our secret, remem- 
ber, between us two and Mr. Gervase Rickman. ” 

“ It will soon be no secret,” she replied; “ that is why Paul 
is coming to England, as he tells me in his letter.” 

“ The whole story is incredible,” said Gervase, impatiently. 
“ Do you mean to say that Paul Annesley is a monk? He will 
have some difficulty in proving his identity here. No one who 
knew him would believe anything so preposterous. Paul of 
all men in the world to turn monk indeed! Some monk is 
humbugging you, Annesley, for the sake of getting the prop- 
erty. Besides,” he added, “ no religious order would receive 
a man without a pension. ” 

“ He was not without money,” Edward explained. “ The 
diamonds we saw at Neufchdtel were in his possession. Alto- 
gether he had about a thousand pounds, as well as professional 
knowledge which would be useful to a friar.” 

Yet Rickman believed the story. A letter from Paul alone 
and nothing that Edward could have told her, accounted for 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


385 


Aliceas strange behavior to himself. The superscription of the 
letter was shown him, and he admitted that it was a good imi- 
tation of Paul Annesley^s handwriting. 

He then left the room ostensibly to tell the news to his 
father, who was happily absorbed in his favorite studies and 
ignorant of all that was passing. 

Edward had yet to break the intelligece to Mrs. Walter An- 
nnesley, for she had refused to admit him when he called that 
afternoon. He hoped to get an interview in the evening, and 
was hurrying olf for the purpose of making another trial. 

“ I broke my news too roughly,^ ^ he said in wishing Alice 
good-night, for his hard manner to her vanished after her 
stormy reception of Gervase. “ It was not a pleasant duty, 
and that spoils the temper,' ’ he explained. 

Alice looked down, then she looked up with her eyes clouded 
with tears. “ I owe it to you," she faltered, “ to tell you all 
— how 1 came to misjudge you. But not now." 

“ Some day," he replied, with increasing gentleness, “you 
shall tell me. When you feel inclined." 

“ Alice," Sibyl asked when he was gone, “ what led you to 
misjudge him? There is some mystery behind this." 

Alice took Sibyl's bright face in her hands and kissed it with 
a tenderness that almost surprised her. 

“ Never ask, Sibyl," she replied; “ let me as well as others 
have the benefit of your loyal trust. You are the best friend 
1 ever had or ever shall have. " 

A few minutes later Alice was in the hall, pacing restlessly 
to and fro, and trying to collect the fragments of her shattered 
world, when Gervase issued from his father's study, closing 
the door behind him, and approaching her. 

“ I shall return to town at once," he said, thus relieving 
her from a great embarrassment; “ I have told my father that 
I found a telegram awaiting me here. " 

‘‘ It is plain that we can not be under the same roof again," 
she replied. 

‘‘ You will never forgive me," he added, gloomily. “ Jacob 
was never forgiven for stealing his blessing, though he got the 
blessing nevertheless. You asked me why I deceived you, 
Alice," he added, his voice deepening and touching her in 
spite of the loathing with which his perfidy inspired her. It 
was because I loved you with such a love as men seldom feel. 
I can not tell when it began— years before either of the Annes- 
leys thought of you ; it never faltered — never. You never had 
and you never will have a more constant and devoted lover — " 

“Oh, hush, Gervase!" she sobbed, “do you think I am 


286 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


made of stone? Were you not my only brother and best 
friend? Are you not your mother's son? Can you not think 
what a bitter thing it is to have to think ill of you, to know of 
your cruel falseness?" 

“ No," he interrupted, miickly, “ i can not; you are stone 
in comparison with me. You can never even picture such a 
passion as mine to yourself, cold, hard, immaculate woman 
that you are!" 

“Gervase!" 

“ Listen, Alice," he said, collecting himself and curbing 
the fierce passion in his voice. “ You have three lovers, and, 
woman-like, you will probably choose the worst. Of these 
three, one attempted murder for the love of you; one lied for 
your sake, though not for your sake alone, for Sibyl's happi- 
ness was at stake; and one " — here he smiled a sarcastic smile 
— “ he who saw and loved you the latest did not think it worth 
while so much as to clear himself from a dreadful imputation 
for your sake. Which of these three, think you, loved you 
the. best?" 

“ He who loved honor and loyalty more," replied Alice, 
proudly and without hesitation. 

“ And he proved it when he offered himself to another 
woman who had the good sense to reject the cold-blooded — " 
Hush, Gervase! things are bitter enough already," Alice 
broke in; “do not imbitter them more by idle words. Let us 
part in peace." 

“ Peace!" echoed Gervase, with a scornful laugh. And he 
looked at the hearth fire in silence awhile. 

When he spoke again his mood was altered. 

“ Alice," he said, gently, “ do not let Sibyl despise me." 

“ I will tel] her nothing that I can avoid to your discredit, 
Gervase," she replied. 

‘ ‘ 1 have said nothing of breaking off our engagement yet. 
Put it as you please, but do not break with them, if you can 
help it. I hope you will not leave them ;. my father ages visi- 
bly. We might part with a mutual conviction that we were 
unsuited to each other," he added with a sardonic smile. 

So they agreed, and then Hickman’s carriage drove up, and 
Mr. Hickman and Sibyl came into the hall to see him off. 

“ Good-bye, Alice," he said in his usual quiet manner, when 
he had parted with his father and sister. 

“ Good-bye," she replied in a faint far-off voice. 

She stood on the steps and watched the carriage till its lights 
diminished to points, and were finally swallowed up in the dense 
dark night; while Gervase looked back at the graceful figure 


THE KEPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


287 


standing in the fan-shaped light streaming from the open hall, 
till the bend of the road swept it from him, and his heart 
ached with a heavy despair. 

Ambition, wealth, success, power — all was now nothing 
without Alice. 


CHAPTER V. 

RESTORATION. 

If one could picture the feelings with which a disembodied 
soul, reclothed in the frail garment of its mortality, would re- 
visit the scenes of its earthly life, one might form some idea 
of the sensations which thrilled the heart of Paul Annesley, 
when, after setting in motion the machinery necessary to per- 
mit any irregularity in the life of a friar, he<^ound himself in 
England, clad once more in the long disused and almost for- 
gotten personality which he had put oh' when, to use his own 
expression, he left the world. Brother Sebastian, using an- 
other language, thinking other thoughts, deprived of name 
and fame and liberty, not only of action, but in a certain de- 
gree of thought, branded as it were with the 'tonsure, and 
dressed in a garb which further stamped him as one set apart 
from common human interests, having voluntarily undergone 
a punishment more severe than any inflicted on the vilest 
criminal prisoner in civilized states; this poor, mortified, un- 
manned, if you will, and certainly half-unhumanized Sebas- 
tian, who yet enjoyed a peace Paul Annesley had never known 
— albeit a peace too deep, too like an opium-trance to be 
wholesome and natural — had become a familiar friend, while 
that fiery-hearted, undisciplined Paul was a stranger, and the 
once familiar faces which surrounded that Paul and his once 
familiar habits and thoughts were even more strange to Sebas- 
tian. 

It needed no little courage in one so disaccustomed to per- 
sonal freedom and so weaned from the stir and friction of ordi- 
nary life, once more to face the world, especially in a land of 
heretics; but Sebastian, after five minutes’ conversation with 
his cousin, whom he had questioned as to his life with an eager 
rapidity that soon laid the whole situation bare to him, was 
too firmly convinced of the immediate necessity for repairing 
the wrong he had unintentionally committed to hesitate an 
instant. The duty was equally obvious to his superior fortu- 
nately, since the superior was the spring that set in motion 
the cogs and wheels of the machinery which effected his brief 
escape to the world: 


288 THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 

In this dear little self-complacent island of ours, where to 
see a nun was till late years the rarest occurrence, and where 
the garb of a monk is almost unknown, we have fallen into a 
pleasant habit of assuming that these cloistered lives have 
passed away with the shadows, sorrows, and discomforts of the 
Middle Ages. Some of us have a hazy notion that printing, 
steam, electricity, and the latest scientific dogma have put an 
end to all that, and that the prophecy of Victor Hugo^s 
printer, who looked from his press to Notre Dame and said, 
“ Ceci tuera cela” is fulfilled, in spite of the fact that this 
grand building, the imperfect symbol of a faith that can not 
die, still stands as it has stood for ages, though many revolu- 
tions have rushed past it in bloody waves and it has more than 
once echoed to the clang of the invader’s arms. 

Yet these phases of religious feeling still exist; unoffending 
monks and nuns are just as real, though not such insufferable 
nuisances as the frantic Salvationers who make day and night 
hideous with profane bawlings in our streets; monks and nuns 
are in fact content to plague only themselves and leave their 
neighbors in peace. Thus when Medington folk saw a gentle- 
man in ordinary clerical attire, with shaven face and a skull 
cap beneath his hat, and were told that this was a veritable 
friar, the thing seemed to them like a fairy tale, more espe- 
cially when they were bid to recognize in this calm clergyman 
the familiar form and face of Paul Annesley, that, smart and 
gay young doctor with the black - bearded face, the ready 
speech, and genial though stately manners they once knew; 
and many were inclined to doubt until they spoke to him. 
Even then it was an eerie thing to hear the voice of a man so 
long reckoned among the dead, and whose sole visible link with 
his former self appeared to be a scar on the face; a man who 
had so closely followed the counsel of Thomas a Kempis as to 
have literally stamped out his passions as we stamp out flames 
— briefly, to have killed his veritable self, leaving little more 
than a husk of acquired habit behind. 

He remained some time in England, for he had much to 
do; and not only in the little world of Medington, but also in 
London and at Chatham, where his cousin was stationed and 
where he visited him, the two appeared constantly together, so 
that the old scandal, which had imbittered almost every relu' 
tion in Edward’s life for so many years, was publicly put to 
death and done away with forever. It was now^ clear that 
Paul Annesley had not even been killed, much less murdered; 
it was equally clear that he would not be on terms of such in- 
timacy with a man who had tried to compass his death. The 


289 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 

fact of his burying himself in a cloister gave a motive, however 
crazy, for his disappearance, and disposed people to believe 
that his desperate leap into the Doubs was voluntary and 
probably suicidal in intention. There were many theories on 
the subject, but the most generally accepted was that a sudden 
bound from poverty to wealth had dev^eloped the hereditary 
tendency to insanity, a tendency further aggravated by the 
fatal woman known to be the cause of all human disaster. 
The woman’s name varied, but on the whole was unknown. 
It had been said from the first that Rickman knew more than 
he cared to say upon the matter, there had even been a doubt 
as to whether he had not borne false witness in the Court of 
Probate when giving the evidence of Paul’s disappearance and 
supposed death, necessary to obtain probate of his will. Al- 
though there was still a mystery concerning both Edward’s 
whereabouts at the moment of his cousin’s disappearance and 
his obstinate silence upon the subject, the mystery was no 
longer interpreted to his discredit. 

Edward Annesley did not accomplish his pious intention of 
breaking the news of her son’s restoration to Mrs. Annesley, 
since that inflexibly vindictive woman resolutely continued to 
shut the door in his face. The task was therefore transferred 
to Alice Lingard, who fulfilled it with the tenderness and tact 
to be expected of her. 

When the fact that her son lived finally burst upon Mrs. 
Annesley, she seemed stunned and sat silent for a long time. 

“ If he lives,” she said at last; “ why is he not here?” 

“ It is a long story,” Alice replied, halt-frightened#at the 
absence of joy, or any other emotion - on the mother’s part. 
‘‘ He was — unhappy — ” 

“ Why was my son unhappy?” asked Mrs. Annesley, fixing 
a cold and^terrible regard upon Alice. 

His letter will tell you,” replied Alice, trembling inwardly. 

Give me that letter. ” 

“ It is in Edward Annesley’s possession — ” 

“ A forgery of his — I curse the day that young man entered 
this house,” she cried, going white with anger. 

Alice tried to soothe her. “ A great change has come over 
Paul,” she said, presently. “ He is now very religious.” 

“ That is indeed a change,” his mother replied with invol- 
untary sarcasm. “ But why did he not return to me after his 
accident? Surely he could not have been imprisoned, kid- 
napped in a civilized country like France?” 

“No,” replied Alice, “ he wished — he — entered a religious 
house. ” 


10 


290 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


“ What do you mean, Alice Lingard?^^ she exclaimed in 
horror and agitation, “ you can not, dare not say that my son 
is a monk. 

“ Dear Mrs. Aunesley, do not think of that; remember only 
that your son was dead and is alive again — that you v/ill soon 
look upon his face — 

“ Never,'’ ^ she cried, never will I look upon the face of an 
apostate, an idolater, a shaven, craven fanatic. Better, ten 
thousand times better, he were in his grave — better anything 
than this. He is no son of mine — a Papist, a monk!^^ 

‘‘Your only son, your only child, Alice said, reproach- 
fully. 

The woman was human after all, and burst into a passion 
of weeping painful to see, but less painful than the cold anger 
which went before and made Alice shudder to her hearths core. 

Suddenly she stopped and turned upon Alice. “ I see it all 
now. You did not love my son,^^ she cried, “ and that made 
him hate his life.^^ 

“ No,'’^ she replied, “ 1 never pretended to love him, save as 
a friend. 1 grieved for him when he was lost. 1 tried to sup- 
ply his place to you. P 

“ You drove him to despair, you robbed fiie of my only 
child, she cried; “the curse of a childless widow is upon 
you, Alice Lingard.’^ 

“ Do not say such things; you will be sorry hereafter. The 
shock has overpowered you, you do not know what you are 
saying.'’^ Alice did not know how to comfort her, when she 
rememllered that Paul was, after all, dead to the outside world. 

Mrs. Aunesley was silent, smiling, a bitter smile, and Alice 
rose and left her for awhile, hoping that she would calm down. 
She herself needed the relief of solitude after this emotional 
strain, and going out into the garden, she sat beneath the yel- 
lowing linden-trees and gave way to tears. 

She accused herself of having driven Paul Annesley to de- 
spair, she did not reflect that his own unbridled nature had 
done the mischief. She had spoiled three men’s lifes, and 
been the cause of guilt and misery unspeakable, though 
through no fault of her own. She could not love more than 
one — at least at a time; and she certainly could not marry 
more than one. She had loyally striven to suppress her own 
inclinations and make the most worthy of the three happy, 
and she had made them all miserable. She who could not bear 
to give pain, even when most necessary and salutary, seemed 
fated to mar instead of blessing the lives of the men who loved 
her. That these three men should set their hearts upon her 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


291 


was hard, and surely no fault of hers. It was not as if she 
were so very beautiful, she reflected; Sibyl was infinitely pret- 
tier and more pleasing; Sibyl charmed wherever she went with 
her grace and sparkle; but Sibyl did not kindle these deep and 
terrible passions in men^s hearts. 

Though she had certainly tried to bring herself to listen to 
each of them in turn, until each in turn had proved unworthy 
of a good woman^’s regard, she had never tried to attract either; 
ready as her sensitive conscience was to accuse herself and ex- 
cuse others, she could not lay that to her charge, she knew 
well that she had none of the graceful and unconscious coquetry 
which was one of Sibyrs distinguishing charms; in her small- 
est actions as well as thoughts she was transparent and straight- 
forward to a fault. It was true that she had resigned her. 
heart to Edward too quickly, at least the world would say too 
quickly; for Alice knew in her inmost heart that women have 
less power than men to withhold their affections, and not more, 
as a brutal conventionality assumes; that the deepest and best 
attachments arise in this sudden and spontaneous way; but she 
had never tried to captivate him, had rather held aloof from 
him in her proud self-reverence. Why then had all this fallen 
upon her, why was she the evil fate in the three lives which 
were each in a way so dear to her? 

When Alice had reached this point in her meditations, the 
sound of Daniel Pink’s words returned to her mind, “ It 
seemed that hard!” She saw the shepherd’s weather-beaten 
face, its ruggedness subdued by a sublime trust; she thought 
of his hard life and many sorrows; she saw him watching his 
sheep in The frosty moonlight, as he had related, and the re- 
membrance of what he had told her quieted the rising mur- 
murs in her heart. 

She rose and returned to Mrs. Annesley, bearing in mind 
the desolation and disappointments of a life that was too near 
the downward verge to have much earthly hope, and prepared 
to suffer ingratitude and upbraiding in silence. 

■ Mrs. Annesley finally consented to receive her prodigal in 
consequence of a letter Gervase Rickman wrote her. In this 
he condoled with her on the unfortunate turn Paul’s religious 
feelings had taken, and made some observations on the zealous 
proselytism of the Romish Church, and of the esteem in which 
English perverts were held at the Vatican, using the names of 
Wiseman, Manning, and Newman, to point his moral and 
adorn his tale. Instantly on reading this, Mrs. Annesley be- 
held a vision : she^ saw herself the mother of a cardinal, and 
relented. 


292 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


Paul, daily besieged with tracts and masses of controversial 
literature, and bombarded by arguments which he heard chiefly 
in respectful and aggravating silence, passed some time be- 
neath his mother’s roof, scandalizing the maids by sleeping on 
the floor and using no linen, but otherwise conducting himself 
like an average Christian, save that he was always going to 
chapel on week-days. At his instance, Edward was also re- 
ceived by his stern aunt. But she did not forgive him; the 
true history of his part in her son’s virtual death made her 
hate him more bitterly than ever. 

When Paul finally left England, his mother felt his loss even 
more severely than when she had supposed him dead; and, 
being no longer sustained by the prospect of vengeance, she 
gradually declined in health and died in the course of a few 
years. 

Sebastian found most sympathy and comprehension in Ed- 
ward. Though the latter did not doubt that Paul had done 
wrong in running away from the trouble he had brought upon 
himself, and wrong in denouncing the duties and responsibili- 
ties of his life, he saw that he could not turn back. Much as 
he disliked anything approaching to asceticism, he was inclined 
to think that a nature so fiery and so destitute of self-control 
needed the iron discipline of monastic rule, as a confirmed 
drunkard needs the restraint of an asylum, and the habit of 
total abstinence. Moderation seemed impossible to such a 
man. But these lenient views of mouasticism were spasmodic 
and were held generally after conversations in which the friar 
had spoken with burning and eloquent enthusiasm of the joys 
of self-renunciation, of his hopes and aspirations, of the pros- 
pects held out to him of more active employment, in which 
his medical knowledge and other talents would be devoted to 
the service of men; and explained to him that friars differed 
from monks in combining the active with the contemplative 
life, a fact which was hard to drive into his obtuse Protestant 
understanding. 

At those times it was impossible even for a practical hard- 
headed Englishman not to see that Friar Sebastian was a nobler 
being than Paul Annesley; though in cooler moments he 
thought with pity and regret of his lost friend, Paul, and was 
inclined to wish him back again, faults and all. 

After an interview which Paul had with Alice in the Manor 
garden one day, he gave up striving to banish her from his 
thoughts, and suffered her to remain there till the last hour of 
his life. He was surprised and glad to find himself quite calm 
in her presence, and recognized that the terrible yearning 


THE REPROACH OF ANHESLEY. 


293 


which once so distracted him was quite dead, and succeeded by 
a pure and tender regard, so free from selfishness and so con- 
tent with absence, that even one vowed to give up all human 
ties need fear nothing from it. He gave her a little crucifix, 
which she wore ever after, and his face at the end of that in- 
terview had a more humanly happy look than it had worn for 
years. When he returned to his community he was so changed 
by this painful but wholesome contact with the world that the 
brethren scarcely knew him. From that time all austerities 
not imposed by the rule of his order ceased, and he regained 
his former bodily and mental health. And if he regretted the 
vows he had taken, no human being ever knew. 

Besides removing the imputation from his cousin^s name, 
Paul had much to do to put him in possession of his property. 
First he had to prove his identity and come to life legally, 
which was a troublesome business; then he had to execute a 
voluntary conveyance, transferring the bulk of his landed prop- 
erty, which, as was mentioned before, was not entailed, to 
Edward Annesley, and a deed of gift by which his mother be- 
came the legal owner of such property as had been assigned 
her by his will; a portion of his property he reserved for him- 
self as an Englishman, and yielded to the fraternity as a 
Dominican friar. Those who received him into the com- 
munity had consented, in consideration of the peculiar circum- 
stances — among them his condition that he could not take the 
vows if that involved touching the property he had renounced 
to his cousin — to be content with the small fortune he was 
then able to bring. 

All these things, as will readily be imagined, were not 
effected without time and patience, and the aid of learned and 
expensive lawyers; the last circumstance is pleasant to reflect 
upon, because humane people like to think that somebody — if 
only a stray lawyer or so — is benefited by the chances and 
changes of this mortal life. 

When, after that pleasant interview with Alice, Brother 
Sebastian went to the house to make his farewells to Sibyl and 
Mr. Rickman, Alice 'remained behind alone in the garden. 

She was not a monk, but a young living woman, with a 
warm and tender heart, and what had passed between her and 
her former lover and present friend had stirred that heart to 
its depths. She wandered slowly along the garden paths, 
through the wicket to the meadow, until she found herself un- 
der the dark rooff of tjie pine-trees, which swayed gently in 
low and solemn music above her head. 


294 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 


It was winter, and the quiet gray day was drawing to a 
close, the mild air taking a sharp edge as the sun sunk. She 
paced the dry soft carpet of fir-iieedles, with her faithful dog 
by her side, and a growing happiness in her heart. Her youth 
had been troubled, and she had borne a heavy yoke in riper 
years; that yoke was now falling from her shoulders, and life, 
which had been so bewildering and difficult, began to show a 
clear and easy path for her w^eary feet — feet still young though 
so wearied by the stony mazes they had trodden. 

Sibyl and Mr. Rickman had taken the breaking of her en- 

§ agement with Gervase more gently than she could have hoped; 

ibyl had even said that she always regarded the match as a 
mistake on both sides; Mr. Rickman had comforted himself 
with the reflection that he should not lose her. But he no 


longer clun^ 
now upon 


I to Alice as he had done; he flung himself more 
hbyl, which, after all, was more natural and de- 
sirable. SibyBs affection for Alice was as great as ever, but 
from that time Alice observed that a distance arose and gradu- 
ally widened between the brother and sister; she supposed that 
Sibyl had some intuition of the truth, a suspicion increased by 
SibyFs silence upon the relations which had existed between 
Gervase and herself. 

The gray sky overhead broke into pearly fragments, tinted 
with gold and rose tow^ard the west, where the glowing sunset 
seemed to have consumed the last speck of cloud; the iir- 
trunks looked incandescent in the warm glow^; Alice’s face was 
doubly transfigured with radiance from within and from with- 
out, while she thought of all that had passed, and how of the 
three caskets of lead, of silver, and of gold, the best was hers, 
and listened to the tranquil country sounds, the hum of the 
threshing-machine in the yard below, the voice of the cow-man 
calling the cows by name and trudging home with the last 
pails of milk, the evening song of the robin, pathetically 
cheerful, the cheery good-night of a laborer going homeward 
past the farm-yard. 

Then she heard another and well-known footstep, beating 
quick even time on the lane which led by the meadow to the 
back of the house, and a well-known voice singing. The song- 
stopped, for the singer caught sight of her figure over the 
hedge in the evening glow, and he went into the meadow in- 
stead of going to the house, whither, wdth the ostensible pur- 
pose of announcing the approaching marriage of his sister 
Eleanor with Major Mcllvray, he was bound. 

Alice turned toward him, the sunset clothing her in raiment 
of living light; they had scarcely met since the stormy evening 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 295 

when he brought Paurs message, aud thus he had not heard 
the story she had then promised to tell him. It seemed but a 
moment from Edvvard^s first sight of her figure in the evening 
glory till when he stood by her side beneath the soft murmurs 
of the pine-roof, thrilled through and through with exquisite 
happiness. 

“ Dearest AliOe,^^ he said, after some preliminary words 
had passed and he had read her heart in her face, “ I think 
you are going to take me after all. I never could believe it 
possible that we should live apart, even when we were most 
parted. First, tell me why you were so scornful to me. How 
in the world did you come to think me such a mean, sneak- 
ing fellow? Some of Master Gervase’s work, no doubt. 

Alice looked distressed and turned her face toward the sun- 
set behind the black hills, till her features were transfused and 
etherealized by the lucid glow. 

“ I wronged you,^^ she replied, “ and owe you some amends. 
Otherwise I would not speak of it.-’^ 

He did not like this distressed look. “Why,^^ he asked, 
“ should you hesitate to expose one of the greatest scoundrels 
that ever breathed? Alice, you don^t mean to say that you 
ever cared for that — he was obliged to stop for want of a 
sufficiently powerful epithet. “ I know that he schemed and 
worried you into an engagement. 

‘‘ I cared for him very much, and 1 promised his mother on 
her death-bed, but I never loved him,^^ she replied. 

“ Well, poor fellow! after all, it must have been a great 
temptation. My dearest Alice, you are quite sure that you 
never loved him?^^ he added, with a relapse to anxiety. 

Alice smiled, and Edward^s heart again admitted extenuat- 
ing circumstances in Gervase'^s case. She then gave him a 
brief but complete narrative of the manner in which Gervase 
had blinded her, had twisted circumstances and misrepresented 
events until she had been obliged, in spite* of an underlying 
inner conviction to the contrary, to accept Edwards’s imputed 
guilt as truth. And whenever Edward^s indignation rose to 
boiling-point, a look in Aliceas face was sufficient to make him 
regard the delinquent with charity. But when, at his earnest 
request, she told him of the steps by which she had gradually 
been led into the engagement, Gervase once more became a 
villain of the deepest dye. 

“But, after all,^^ he commented at the close of the recital, 
“ he had a more thorough and lasting feeling for you than 
could be expected of such a scoundrel. And Paul cared only 
too much for you. ^ It was more like infatuation with them; 


296 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


not that either of them ever loved you as I do and did from 
the very first. It is strange that a woman should have such 
power/ ^ he- reflected, after a pause; “ it is not as if you were 
so unusually beautifuL'’' 

“ Eeally!^^ Alice commented, with an amused smile. 

“ Because, he added, surveying her with unmoved gravity, 
“ you are not. 

Yet the Alice before him to-night was not the worn and sor- 
rowful woman he saw when he brought the tidings that Paul 
was alive. The beauty of youth, with something that youth, 
with all its graces, can not have, had returned to the face up- 
turned to him with a serious sweetness full of latent laughter. 
She was touched in turn by the change which had recently 
come over his face — the grim, defiant look of late years was 
gone, the old genial expression replaced it. Not Ulysses un- 
der the touch of Athene was more brightened than Edward 
now the burden had fallen from him. This changed look, 
with many subsequent hints from him, helped her to guess 
what he had suffered in silence, and made her feel that no de- 
votion on her part would be too great to atone for what had 
gone by. 

“ No,^^ he continued, gravely, it is not beauty alone. If 
you do but turn your head, one's heart must follow, and when 
you speak, it goes to the very center of one’s heart." 

“ And yet you wanted to marry Sibyl?" 

“ Dear Sibyl! That rascal might have let his sister alone. 
He persuaded me that her happiness was in danger, and that 
she, as well as others, had mistaken the nature of my friend- 
ship, and 1 was fool enough to believe him. Sibyl is one of 
the sweetest creatures I ever knew, Alice. ” 

“ It appears, after all, that you would have preferred 
Sibyl," Alice said, smiling. 

“ Dear Sibyl," he repeated, gravely. “ But," he added, 
turning to Alice again with a bright smile, “ she won’t have 
me. She told me that I was in love with you. She advised 
me to wait. She said you were worth waiting for. She ought 
to know." 

Alice turned her face away and was silent. 

“ I think no one will ever know what she is worth," she said 
at last. 

“We shall never have a better friend," he added; and 
Alice echoed his words in her heart. 

The sun sunk; all the glory of its setting melted into a 
warm violet tinge, filling the western sky, and making the 
dark hill-side show darker than ever against the light; every 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 


297 


sound was hushed save the tinkle of a distant sheep-bell; cot- 
tage windows glowed warmly in the village, showing where fire- 
sides were cheerful and suppers spread; white rime-crystals 
were beginning to sparkle on the cold grass, the stars had the 
keen brilliance of frost; wise people were in-doors; yet these 
two lingered beneath the pines, unconscious of cold, until even 
Hubert^s long suffering came to an end, and his displeased 
whines recalled them from beatified cloud-land to the solid 
earth. 

Love begins in the warm morning of life, but does not end 
with it; though the music of birds is hushed, though evening 
chills come and hair is whitened by the frost of years, it is still 
warm and bright in the hearts of true lovers; there the sun 
always shines and the birds continually sing. 


CHAPTER VI. 

CONCLUSTOH. 

“ Shart of putten^ of ^em under ground, you caint never 
be zure on ^em,^'’ Raysh Squire observed concerning the reap- 
pearance of Paul Annesley, against whom he had secretly borne 
a grudge ever since the irregular and unceremonious manner 
ill which he left the world. “ Once you’ve got vour veet of 
solid^earth atop of ’em, you med war’nt they’ll bide quiet. 
Buryenof mankind is a ongratefuJ traade, but I hreckon there 
ain’t a surer traade nowhere. Ay, a dead zure traade is 
buryen,” he added, not intending the grim pun. 

These cheerful observations were part of Raysh Squire’s con- 
tributions to the hilarity of the wedding-party assembled in the 
great kitchen at Arden Manor to celebrate the marriage of 
Reuben Gale — who> after several winters spent in Algeria in 
the service of young Mrs. Reginald Annesley, had outgrown 
his consumptive tendeiKjy — with one of Daniel Pink’s daugh- 
ters, a house-maid at the Manor. 

“ Right you be, Raysh,/’ replied Mam Gale, “ Tain’t often 
work of yourn has to be ondone. They med be ever so na'isy 
avore, they bides still enough when you’ve adone with ’em.” 

Pretty nigh so sure as marryen, your work is, Raysh,” 
John Nobbs struck in with a view to divert conversation to 
livelier channels. 

“ Ay, marryen agen,” continued Raysh, irritated by the 
assumption that marrying was not his work, “ ’tain’t nigh so 
zure as buryen; we’ve a-married many a man twice over in 
Arden Church. There’s wuld Jackson, you minds he. Master 
Nobbs? Vive tiipes we married en in Arden Church, vive 


298 


THE REPROACH OE AHHESLEY. 


times over, to vive vine women buried alongside of en out in 
lytten. Dree on ^em was widows. 

“ I don^t hold with so much marrying/^ observed the bride- 
groom, to whom these remarks were distasteful. “ Once in a 
life-time is quite enough for any man,” he added, with a pro- 
found sigh and a serious air. 

“ What! tired of it aready, Hreub?^^ inquired his grand- 
mother; and there was much laughter and rough joking at 
Reuben'’s expense. 

‘‘ Marryen,^^ observed Eaysh, when people had exhausted 
their mirth and were again amenable to eloquence, “ is like 
vrostes and east winds, powerful unpleasant it es, but you caint 
do without it in the long hrun.^' 

‘‘ Come, Raysh,^^ interrupted an old bachelor and noted 
misogynist of at least thirty, “ speak for yourself.” 

“Yes, speak for yourserf,” echoed Reuben. 

“You caint do without it,” continued Raysh, scornfully 
ignoring these interruptions, “ if you wants to make zure of a 
ooman. A wiveren sect they be. Shart of gwine to church 
with ’em and changing of their name, you caint be sure on 
’em. Chop hround at the last minute they will. Look at 
Mrs. Annesley, Miss Lingard that was. John Cave had 
a-turned a coat hready for me to marry her to Mr. Gervase, 
and I’d a-bought a brand-new neck-cloth, and everything 
hready, and the church scoured from top to bottom. That 
was vour year ago come next Middlemass. Darned if 1 ever 
zeen Mr. Merton look onluckier than a did that day. ‘ Wed- 
den,’ he ses, ‘ there ain’t a-gwine to be no wedden, Raysh.’ 
That was the first I yeard of it. Zimmed as though he’d 
a-knocked all the wind out of me when a zaid that. The 
ways of the womenvolk is that wiveren the best on ’em. A 
undeniable sect is womankind, a undeniable sect.” 

Here John Nobbs, who was at the head of the table, work- 
ing steadily away at a mighty sirloin, observed that both parties 
had done better in the matrimonial lottery than if that wed- 
ding had taken place. “ Misself,” he said, “ I never giv my 
consent to that match. ‘ They’ll never goo in double har- 
ness,’ I ses to misself, many a time when I zeen ’em together.” 

“ Ah, Master Nobbs, I don’t go with you,” said Jacob Gale. 
“ Mr. Gervase have a looked too high. ’Tis agen nature for 
a man to look up to his wife. Lady hiharlett comes of one of 
the highest vamilies in the land, and 1 war’nt she’ll make en 
mind that.” 

“ Mis’able proud is Lady Sharlett,” said the gardener. 


THE REPROACH OF ANKESLET. 


299 


“ She was out in gairden a good hour one day, and she took no 
more count of me than if I^d a ben a malleyshag/^ 

Here the discussion of Lady Charlotte^s peculiarities was cut 
short by the entrance of Mr. liickman and Sibyl, accompanied 
by Edward Annesley and Alice, the latter carrying the two- 
year-old heir of Gledes worth, whose birthday was being cele- 
brated by a visit to Arden Manor, and a great drinking of 
healths ensued, accompanied by speech-making, in which 
Raysh Squire outdid himself, and the bridegroom endured a 
purgatory of stammers, blushes, and break-downs. 

“ I can not imagine,'’^ Sibyl remarked, when the ceremony 
was over and the family had left the kitchen for the garden, 
where they disposed themselves on various seats beneath the 
apple-trees, now in bloom, “ why men, however sensible they 
may be, always look sd foolish when being married. 

“ Don^t you think they have cause, Sibyl?^^ Edward asked; 
‘‘ that a secret consciousness of their own folly — 

“ Folly, indeed laughed Sibyl. “ Now the brides would 
do well to look silly or else sad. Yet they never do. The 
shyest girl in the humblest class always wears a subdued air of 
triumph at her marriage-. Human beings certainly are the 
oddest creatures.'^ 

Here Mr. Rickman expressed a wish, after a long disserta- 
tion concerning the gradual evolution of marriage rites from 
primitive^times till now, with some remarks upon such cus- 
toms as the bride presenting the bridegroom with a whip and 
the throwing of rice, to see this triumphant look upon SibyFs 
face before long. 

My dear papa, donT you think T look triumphant enough 
as it is?^'’ she replied. “ I exult in freedom; let others hug 
their chains. Besides, I have you to tyrannize over, so what 
do I want with a husband to plague?^-’ 

She looked radiant enough, if not triumphant, as she stood 
beneath the crimson apple blossoms, with the dappled sun- 
lights dancing over her, tossing the laughing boy above her 
curly head, her dark eyes sparkling and the rich tints glowing 
in her cheeks. “ Marriage,^^ she would sometimes say, in an- 
swer to such observations as this of Mr. Rickman^ “is not 
one of my foibles. I like my brother-men and can not bring 
myself to make any of them miserable. And 1 like Miss Sibyl 
Rickman and her peace of mind, and I like to write what I 
think, which I could not do if married. Besides, what in the 
world would people do if there were no old maids?^^ 

Edward and Alice knew that they would have beem the 
poorer for her marriage, though they often wished it. Both 


300 


THE REPKOACH OF ANKESLEY. 


were certain that she had conquered the early feeling which at 
one time threatened to make shipwreck of her happiness, and 
this certitude made their constant intercourse with Sibyl very 
happy. 

Alice had wished not to live at Gledesworth. She did not 
care for the state and circumstance of the great house, and 
was oppressed by its traditions. She would rather have left 
the property with Paul, to be absorbed by his community, or 
passed it on to the next brother, but Edward soon convinced 
her that such schemes were impracticable, that responsibilities 
can not be evaded, and finally that it was their duty to live, as 
much as his military life permitted, at Gledesworth, which had 
now become a charming home, the resort of a wide circle of 
friends and kinsfolk. 

What with the provision for Paul^ mother, and the slice 
taken out for the Dominicans, the Gledesworth estate was so 
diminished that they were not overburdened with riches, and 
had to use some economy to meet the charges entailed by the 
possession of land. As for the hereditary curse, Annesley 
laughed that to scorn, and had many a merry battle of words 
witlh Sibyl upon the subject. The distich,'^ he argued, proved, 
if anything, its own falsity, since Reginald Aniiesley^s affliction 
ought to have broken the spell, which nevertheless continued 
to work upon two successive heirs after hiin. But Sibyl main- 
tained that Paul has broken the spell in the Dominican con- 
vent. Very likely Reginald had been immured in a brick 
building, she would affirm with profound gravity. 

“ Your godson, Sibyl, Edward said, taking the boy from 
her arms, “ will die when it pleases God, not before. And if 
he does not live to inherit Gledesworth, it will not be because 
a widow cursed his ancestors centuries ago. It may be from 
his own fault or folly, indeed, though he is too like his mother 
to have many faults. Poor Reuben^s children, I grant you, 
may inherit a curse.'’'’ And so he thought, will Gervase’s, but 
theirs will be the curse of a crooked nature. - 

Gervase Rickman was then actually walking along the gray- 
green ridge of down which rose behind the Manor against the 
pale April sky. Business had called him unexpectedly to 
Medington, which he still represented, and, leaving his car- 
riage in the high-road, with instructions to wait at the 
Traveler’s Rest, he descended the slope and walked over the 
springy turf, looking down upon Arden and its familiar fields 

* “ Whanne ye lord ys wewed in stonen celle, 

Gledesworthe thauue sbulle brake hys speile.” 


THE REPROACH OF AHNESLEY. 301 

and trees, and upon the very garden wliere Alice and Sibyl 
were making cowslip-balls for the baby Aniiesley. The 
changeable April day clouded over as he walked and gazed; 
the blush of vivid green died from the trees and copses; the 
plain darkened and the shadows in the hill-sides deepened. 
The song-birds were silent; the melancholy wail of a plover 
drew his attention to a single bird, fluttering as if wounded 
before him, and trying in its simple, pathetic cunning to draw 
his attention away from the nest which that very cry be- 
trayed. 

On the bleak March day when he waited on that down out- 
side the Traveler's Eest for Alice, he had thought much of the 
omnipotence of human will, and purposed to mold mankind 
to his own ends. Thqn he was an obscure country lawyer, 
nursing an unsuspected’ ambition in the depths of his heart. 
Now his name was in every one^s mouth; he had climbed more 
than one step toward the height he intended to scale. The 
minister whose patronage had so early been his was now in 
office. He had approved himself to his party as a useful and 
almost indispensable instrument, particularly by the services 
he had rendered in the last general election which restored the 
Liberals to power. His financial skill was beginning to be 
recognized, his name had weight in financial society, which he 
affected. Everything he touched turned to gold. By his 
marriage with Lady Charlotte he was connected with half the 
peerage and was son-in-law to a minister. Lady Charlotte, it 
is true, was neither so young as she had been, nor so beautiful 
as she might have been, nor was she well-dowered. She was 
known to have a tongue and suspected of having a temper; 
but she was a woman who knew the world both of politics and 
of society, and was the most useful wife a man in his position 
could possibly have. His ambition, great as it was, was being 
more rapidly gratified than even he had expected. He had 
gained the world, and lost his soul. 

But to-day he no longer believed in the omnipotence of will 
and energy. He looked down upon the roofs of Arden and 
thought of the severe check his will had received there; he 
thought, too, of the unexpectedly favorable conjunction of 
affairs for him in other respects, and acknowledged another 
power, which he called destiny. AVhat would the first Na- 
poleon have done, he mused, in peaceful England at this end 
of the nineteenth century? If he had missed the Crimea and 
the Mutiny, he might have risen to be a half-pay officer; had 
he been in time for those crises, he might have been reckoned 
an excellent general, nothing more. 


302 


THE REPROACH OF AHHESLEY. 


Be5^ond the unseen sea behind the hills rising before Eick- 
inan’s eyes lay a country occupied by a hostile army and torn 
by revolution. Why had not destiny placed him there, where 
the hour was come, but not the man to rule it? An eager 
fancy could almost hear the far-off thunder of the war fitfully 
raging beyond that little strip of sea, over whose quiet waters 
he actually heard the boom of English guns, fired only in 
peaceful practice, not at masses of living men. There, in the 
world’s beautiful pleasure city, an agony beyond ail the agonies 
of war was slowly wearing itself out through these pleasant 
spring months, an agony then hidden within the walls of Paris 
beleaguered by her own children, and never fully to be known. 
Gervase Eickman gave a passing thought to that tragedy and 
foresaw the fiames and indiscriminate slaughter in which it 
was before long to terminate, when the Seine literally ran with 
French blood shed by French hands, the tragedy of an un- 
bridled mob swayed ^fitfully by one or two fanatics in posses- 
sion of a great city, and he wondered at the weakness of 
those who ought to have ruled. 

Though he still believed more in men than in institutions, 
and scorned weakness above everything, he did not believe as 
he had done that day by the Traveler’s Eest; his ambition had 
now risen from the vague of golden visions into the clearness 
of reality, and he could see how low was the highest summit 
within his reach. Yet it was the sole object of his life, he 
cared for nothing else. The human side of his character was 
paralyzed on the day when he lost Alice. It was not only that 
all his better instincts and nobler aspirations died the moment 
his life was cut off from all tender feelings and sundered from 
the purer influences of hers, but in losing her he had to a cer- 
tain extent lost Sibyl, and drifted away from those earlier and 
stronger ties which begin with life itself. Sibyl, the second 
good genius of his life, was never again on the old terms with 
him. AVhenever they met there was an invisible, impassible 
barrier between them; perhaps she knew all and despised him, 
as, he knew, Alice desjoised him. 

All his life long, through wealth and power and gratified 
ambition, he was to bear about the heavy pain .of having lost 
not Alice only, but her respect, of having won not her love but 
her bitter scorn. He looked down upon the Manor, where 
she was so frequent a guest that he never went there himself 
without a previous intimation, lest they should meet, as it was 
tacitly understood they could not, and he yearned for the old 
days to live again, that he might act differently. Since he 
was fated not to win her heart, which he saw clearly now was 


THE KEPROACH OF Aiq’N’ESLEY. 


303 


beyond human volition, he might still have been able to look 
in her face and see the old tender, friendly look in her eyes; 
and yet had he remained true to his better self, he could never 
have succeeded as he was to succeed when freed from scruples 
and rid of the importunities of conscience. He would have 
lost the world and saved his soul alive. 

For some moments the old yearning returned with such 
force at the sight of the pleasant paths in which they had wan- 
dered together, that he thought he would have been content to 
remain all his life in that 'quiet spot, an obscure country law- 
yer, with Alice by his side, with his old father to care for and 
Sibyl to take pride in. Hot that he did not now take great 
pride in Sibyl and her increasing literary reputation, but it 
would have been different if the dark shadow had not come 
between them. But Lady Charlotte, who had been his wife 
four months, did not like Arden. Mr. Rickman bored her, 
she was afraid of Sibyl, and looked down upon them all; he 
knew that she would put them further and farther asunder 
and himself further and ever further from his nobler nature. 

He leaned upon the gate by which he was standing with 
Alice on that summer evening, when he uttered those two 
fatal words, “ quite right,^^ and reviewed all that episode in 
his life, the inclination first springing from a sordid thought 
of Aliceas fortune, then fostered by the charm of her daily 
society, and strengthened by the strong purpose with which he 
pursued every aim, until it became a ruling passion, the frus- 
tration of which tore away one half of his character. He had 
played skillfully and daringly, and he had lost through no 
folly, for who could dream that a man would rise from the 
dead to frustrate him? Will, skill, and fate were to him the 
sole rulers of things human. He did not recognize that noth- 
ing can stand which is not built upon the eternal foundations 
of truth and justice. 

Nevertheless, as he continued to gaze on the old paternal 
fields in which he had passed his boyhood and youth, a vague 
regret for what he might have been, had he been only true to 
himself, rose and mingled with the piercing sense of loss and 
moral humiliation, which never wholly left him, and he turned 
from-Arden and walked on. Now his face was toward Gledes- 
worth, which lay unseen behind the down, and he gave one 
jealous passionate thought to the life Alice was living there 
with Edward Annesley, who was now no more shunned or 
shadowed by the reproach of an unproved accusation, and yet 
another thought to the strange death in life of Paul Annesley. 

And just then the coast guns boomed over the peaceful 


304 THE KEPROACH OF AFTNESLEY. 

waters again, recalling his thoughts to the tragedy beyond the 
sea. The group in the garden below heard the same low 
thunder, and Sibyl made some jesting allusion to the Annes- 
ley gun, which had just been triumphantly tested at Shoe- 
buryness; and Edward thought of the deadly earnest with 
which French cannon -v^ere being fired on the other side of that 
sunny sea. 

They did not know that, just then, under the walls of 
Paris, while some m,ni wounded after a repulse were being 
placed in an ambulance, a shot from the fort behind them 
struck a friar who was in the act of lifting the last man, and 
killed him on the spot. 

The wounded man groaned when his living support gave 
way, but other hands raised him, and the ambulance moved 
away from the dangerous spot, leaving the dead man behind 
in their haste. He was one of those Dominicans, who, from 
the first outbreak of the war, had been in the field with the 
French armies. In disengaging the slain friar from the man 
he was lifting, they had turned him so that he lay face up- 
ward, his arms outstretched as in the restful slumber of youth, 
his white dress stained crimson over the breast, his eyes closed 
to the spring sunshine, his scarred face wearing the sweet and 
peaceful smile often seen in the soldier killed in battle. 

Thus Paul Annesley^s troubled soul passed heroically to its 
rest. 

Though they could not know what was happening beyond 
the sea, a vague sadness in keeping with the sudden overcloud- 
ing of the spring day filled the hearts of those to whom the 
slain man had been dear, a sadness which passed like the cloud 
itself. 

Even Gervase Eickman felt the passing gloom, and shaking 
off the gentler memories of his life, and walking quickly over 
the sunny turf where the scattered sheep were feeding, he 
reached the sign-post beneath which he was standing when 
Edward Annesley came singing by years ago.. There his car- 
riage was waiting by the Traveler’s Eest, and he sprung into 
it and was quickly whirled out of sight. 

The little group at Arden Manor were tranquilly sitting be- 
neath the apple-trees. Mr. Eickman, forgetful of coins and 
antiquities, was patiently weaving daisy^hains for little Paul, 
who called him grandfather, and whom he loved more than 
the little Eickmans who came after him; Alice was relating 
the family news — the expected visit of her mother-in-law and 
Harriet to Gledesworth, the probability that Major Mcllvray 
and Eleanor would follow them; Wilfrid’s chances of promo- 


THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. 305 

tion and his intention to marry; the appointment of Jack, the 
youngest Annesley, to a ship, and the recent visit they had 
paid to Mrs. Walter Annesley, who was growing weaker day 
by day; the probability of Edward's retiring from active serv- 
ice. 

The shadows lengthened and the Annesleys went back to 
their pleasant home. Sibyl returned to the wedding-party, led 
the dancing, and listened to the singing, and saw the bride and 
bridegroom start for their new home at the falling of the dusk. 

W^hen she was sitting by the hearth with her father that 
night she mused on the different ways in which human lives 
are ordered. As days of brilliant sunshine and blue skies are 
rare in England, so are lives of full and unclouded happiness 
ill this world; but there are many sweet neutral-tinted days 
full of peace, in which plants grow and birds sing, and the 
clouds break away into soft glory at sunset. Sibyl’s life was 
like one of these serene days; it was happy and by no means 
unfruitful. 


THE END* 


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[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.] 


Works by tbe author of “ Addie’s 
Husband.” 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 


Clouds to Sunshine 10 

604 My Poor Wife 10 

1046 Jessie 20 

Works by the author ot ‘‘A Fatal 
Dower,” 

246 A Fatal Dower 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 

829 The Actor’s Ward 20 

Works by the author of ” A Great 
Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

.588 Cherry 10 

1040 Clarissa's Ordeal. 1st half... 20 

1040 Clarissa'.s Ordeal. 2d half.... 20 

1137 Prince Charming 20 


Woiiian's Love-Story.” 

322 A W'oman’s Love-Story 10 

377 Griselda 20 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

17 The Wooing O’t 20 

62 Tlie Executor...: 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or AVidovv? 10 

236 Which Shall it Be? 20 


330 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. . 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

564 At Bay 10 

794 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

797 Look Before You Leap 20 

805 The Freres. 1st half 20 

805 The Freres. 2d half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 1st half.... 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 2d half 20 

814 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weiid 10 

900 By Woman’s Wit 20 

997 Forging the Fetters, and The 

Australian Aunt 20 

1054 Mona’s Choice 20 

1057 A Life Interest 20 

Alison’s Works. 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Farl”.. 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

481 The House That Jack Built... 10 

F. Aiistey’s Works. 

.59 Vice Versa 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 

Romance 10 

819 A Fallen Idol 20 

R. M. Ballantyne’s Works. 

89 The Red Eric 10 

95 Tlie Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erliiig tlie Bold 10 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 

Trader 20 


2 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


Ilonore De Balzac’s Works. 

776 PdreGoriot 20 

1128 Cousin Pons 20 

S. Barinif-Gould’s Works. 

787 Court Royal 20 

878 Little Tu’penny 10 

1122 Eve 20 

Frank Barrett’s Works. 

986 The Great Hesper 20' 

1138 A Recoiling Vengeance 20 

Basil’s Works. 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green 20 

647 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

685 A Drawn Game 20 

Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Tdonea 20 

199 The Fisher Village 10 

Walter Besant’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Forttine 10 

146 Love Finds the VVay.and Other 
Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

2.30 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 Ir Luck at Last 10 

541 Uncle Jack 10 

651 “ Self or Bearer” 10 

882 Children of Gibeon 20 

904 The Holy Rose 10 

906 'I'he World Went Very Well 

Then 20 

980 To Call Her Mine 20 

1055 Katharine Regina 20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 

Greatness, and His Fall 20 

1143 The Inner House 20 


1151 For Faith and Freedom. 1st half 20 
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273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 
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579 The Flower of Doom,and Other 

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594 Doctor Jacob 20 

1023 Next of Kin— Wanted 20 

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1 Yolande 20 

18 Sliandon Bells.. 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule ^ 

39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers ^ 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane ^ 

126 Kiimeny ^ 


138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness 10 

627 White Heather 20 

898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 

Two Young Fools 

962 Sabina Zembra. 1st half 

962 Sabina Zembra. 2d half 

1096 The Strange Adventures of a 

House-Boat 

1132 In Far Lochaber 

R. D. Blackinore’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 

615 Mary Anerley 

625 Eiema; or. My Father’s Sin.. 

629 Ci ipps, the Carrier 

630 Cradock Nowell. 1st half 

630 Cradock Nowell. 2d half 

931 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale 

632 ( lara Vaughan 

993 The Maid of Sker. 1st half... 

693 The Maid of Sker. 2d half 

6-36 Alice Lorraine. 1st half 

636 Alice Lorraine. 2d half. 

926 Springhaven. 1st half 

926 Springhaven. 2d half 

Miss M. E. Braddon’s Works. 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret 

56 Phantom Fortune 

74 Aurora Floyd 

110 Under the Red Flag 

153 The Golden Calf 

204 Vixen 

211 The Octoroon 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

263 An Ishmaelite 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1884. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

434 Wyllard’s Weird 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part I 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part IT 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M, Ifi. Braddon 

488 .Toshua Haggard’s Daughter... 

489 Rupert Godwin 

495 Mount Royal 

496 Obl.y a Woman, Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

497 The Lady’s Mile 

498 Only a Clod 

499 The Cloven Foot 

511 A Strange World 

515 Sir Jasper’s I’enant 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 

529 Tlie Doctor’* Wife 

542 Fenton’s Quest 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 


gsggggggg gggg g g g gg gggggggggggggs gg BB BB^ 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


B 


548 'I’he Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

55’^ Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey ^ 

554 Charlotte's Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey 20 

557 To the Bitter End 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20 

600 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Slioes ^ 

570 John Marchmont's Legacy 20 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or. The 

Penalty of Fate 20 

881 Mohawks. 1st half 20 

881 Mohawks. 2d half 20 

890 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

that Hath Us in His Net ” 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 
Lucius Davoren. 1st half. ... 20 
947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 
Lucius Davoren. 2d half.... 20 


1036 Like and Unlike 20 

1098 The Fatal Three 20 

Works by Charlotte M. Braeme* 
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19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madol in’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed by Love; or, Love's 

Victory 20 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, A 

Broken Heart 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Whicii Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure. (Large 

type edition) 20 

967 Repented at Leisure 10 

249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter;’’ 

or. The cost of Her Love 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime ; or, Viv- 
ien’s Atonement 10 

^7 At War With Herself 10 

923 At War With Herself. (Large 

type edition) ^ 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out ihe Gloom 10 

055 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. (Large 
type edition) 20 


291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 


948 The Shadow of a Sin. (Large 

type edition) 

294 Lady Hutton's Ward 

294 Hilda; or. The False Vow 

928 Lady Hutton’s Ward 

928 Hilda; or, The False Vow. 

(Large type edition) 

295 A Woman’s War 

952 A Woman’s War. (Large type 

edition) 

296 A Rose in Thorns 

297 Hilary’s Folly; cr. Her Mar- 

riage Vow .. 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. (Large type edi- 
tion) 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 

304 In Cupid’s Net 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 

308 Beyond Pardon 

322 A Woman's Love-Story 

323 A Willful Maid 

411 A Bitter Atonement 

438 My Sister Kate 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. 

(Large type edition) 

951 A Woman’s Temptation 

460 Under a Shadow 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 

466 Between Two Loves 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret; or, A 

Guiding Star 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 

471 Thrown on the World 

476 Between Two Sins; or. Married 

in Haste 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce 

576 Her Martyrdom 

626 A Fair Mystery 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or. 
The Romance of a \oung 

Girl 

745 For A nother’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love 

792 Set in Diamonds 

821 The World Between Them 

853 A True Magdalen 

854 A Woman’s Error 

922 Marjorie 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear 

927 Sweet Cymbeline 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or, The 

Miller’s Daughter 

931 Lady Diana's Pride 


^8 gggggggg g ggg 5 ggg 8888S8 S S So o S g S SS 


4 


THE SEASIDE LIBRxiRl— PociiET Edition, 


949 Claribel’s Love Story ; or, Love’s 


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958 A Haunted Life ; or, Her Terri- 
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969 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, 

Not Proven 20 

973 The Squire’s Darling 20 

975 A Dark Marriage Morn 20 

978 Her Second Love 20 

982 The Duke’s Secret 20 

985 On Her Weddintr Morn, and 
The Mystery of the Holly-Tree 20 
•988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 

Leigh 20 

990 The Earl.’s Error, and Arnold’s 

Promise 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 

That Beautiful liady 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment 20 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart 20 

1010 Golden Gates 20 

101 ’2 A Nameless Sin 20 

1014 A Mad Loye 20 

1031 Irene’s Vow 20 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart 20 

1091 A IModcrn Cinderella 10 


1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. 1st half 20 
1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. 2d half 20 
1155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 
a Wedding - Ring, and The 


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Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 

15 Jane Eyre 20 

57 Shirley 20 

944 The Professor 20 

Khoda Broughton’s Works. 

86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts .... 20 

227 Nancy 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains 10 

758 “Good-bye, Sweetheart!’’ 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well 20 

767 Joan 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower 20 

862 Betty’s Visions 10 

894 Doctor Cupid 20 

Hlary E. Bryan’s Works. 

731 The Bayou Bride \ 20 

, 8.57 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 

Red House. 1st half 20 

: 857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 

Red House. 2d half 20 

Robert Biicimuan’s Works. 

. 145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man 20 

T54 Annan Water 20 

.181 The New Abelard 10 

:398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan. . . 10 

(646 The Master of the Mine 20 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love’s 

Victory 10 

1074 Stormy Waters 20 

1104 The Heir of Linne 20 

Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 

375 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor 20 


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521 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

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445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

5^ She’s All the World to Me 10 

>Irs. II. liovett Cameron’s Works. 

595 A North Country Maid 20 

796 In a Grass Country 20 

891 Vera Nevill; or, Poor Wisdom’s 

- .. 20 

912 Pure Goid." 1st half.’.". .’. 20 

912 Pure Gold. 2d halt 20 

963 Worth Winning . 20 

1025 Daisy’s Dilemma... 20 

1028 A Devout Lover; or, A Wasted 

Love 20 

1070 A Life’s Mistake 20 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Works. 

215 Not Like Other Girls 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 1st 

half 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 2d 

half 20 

608 For Lilias. 1st half ... 20 

608 For Lilias. 2d half 20 

930 Uncle Max. 1st half 20 

930 Uncle Max. 2d half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. 1st half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. 2d half 20 

934 Wooed and Married. 1st half. 20 
934 Wooed and Married. 2d half. 20 
936 Nellie’s Memories. 1st half. .. 20 
936 Nellie’s Memories. 2d half... 20 

961 Wee Wifie 20 

1033 Esther: A Story for Girls 20 

1064 Only the Governess 20 

1135 Aunt Diana 20 

I.ewis Carroll’s Works. 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Illustrated by John 

Tenniel 20 

789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 
Illustrated by John Tenniel. . 20 


Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

167 Heart and Science U 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and 

Other Stories 10 

233 “ I Say No;’’ or. The Love-Let- 
ter Answered.. . 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet ' 10 

623 My Lad}' ’s Money 10 

701 The Woman in White. 1st half 20 

701 The Woman in White. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. Ist half. 20 

702 Man and Wife. 2d naif IW 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


5 


764 The Evil Genius 20 

896 The Guilty River. 20 

W6 The Dead Secret 1 20 

977 The Haunted Hotel 20 

10*^9 Artnadale. 1st half 20 

10*^9 Armadale. 2d half 20 

1095 The Lettac3' of Cain 20 

1119 No Name. Isl half 20 

1119 No Name. 5.'d half 20 


Mabel Collins’s Works. 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Dauprhter... 20 
828 The PrettiestWoman in Warsaw ^ 


Hugh Conway’S Works. 


240 Called Back 10 

251 TheDanghterof the Stars, and 
Other Tales 10 

301 Dark Days 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest 10 

502 Carriston’s Gift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 

543 A Family Affair 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories 10 

711 A Cardinal Sin 20 

804 Living or Dead ^ 

830 Bound by a Spell ^ 


J. Fenimore Cooper’s Works. 


60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy. 20 

309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The 'I’wo Admirals 20 

359 The Water-Witoh 20 

361 The Red Rover 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted . 

Knoll 20 

385 The Headsman ; or. The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons 20 

394 The Bravo 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish.. 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20 

414 Jliles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack 'Pier : or. The Florida Reef 20 

419 The Chainbearer; or. The Lit- 

tle-page Manuscripts 20 

420 Satanstoe ; or, The Littlepage 

Manuscripts 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts 20 

422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay 20 


425 The Oak-Openings; or. The 


Bee-Hunter 20 

431 The Monikius : ^ 

1062 The Deerslayer; or. The First 

War-Path. 1st half ao 

1062 The Deerslayer; or. The First 

War-Path. 2d half W 


Marie Corelli’s Works. 

1068 Vendetta I or. The Story of One 

Forgotten 20 

1131 Thelma. 1st half ^ 

1131 Thelma. 2d half ^ 

Georgiana M. Craik’s Works. 

450 Godfrey Helstone 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer 20 

B. M. Croker’s Works. 

207 Pretty Miss Neville 20 

260 Proper Pride 10 

412 Some One Else 20 

1124 Diana Barrington 20 

May Cromnielin’s Works. 

452 In the West Countrie 20 

619 Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford 20 

647 Goblin Gold 10 

Alphonse Daudet’s Works. 

534 Jack 20 

574 The Nabob: A Story of Parisian 
Life and Manners 20 


Charles Dickens’s Works, 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. I ^ 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. 11... ^ 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. I ^ 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II ^ 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. 1st halL. ^ 
37 Nicholas Nickleby. 2d half... ^ 

41 Oliver Twist ^ 

77 A Tale of Two Cities ^ 

84 Hard Times.. 10 

91 Barnaby.Rudge. 1st half. ... 20 

91 Barnabv Rudge. 2d half ^ 

94 Little Dorrit. 1st half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. 2d half ^ 

106 Bleak House. 1st half ^ 

106 Bleak House. 2d half 20 

107 Dotnbey and Son. 1st half ... ^ 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold 10 

131 Our Mutual Friend. 1st half. 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. 2d half.. ^ 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler.. 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 The Haunted Man 10 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. 1st half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. 2d half 20 

439 Great Expectations 2C 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

447 American Notes... 20 


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448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

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454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood. 
456 Sketclies by Boz. Illustrative 
of Ever 3 '-day Life and Every- 

aay P«»opIe 

676 A Child’s Histoiy of England. 

!<arnli Doiidney’s Works. 

338 The Family Difficulty 

679 Where Two Ways Meet 

F. Du Boisgokey’s Works. 

82 Sealed Lips 

104 The Coral Pin. 1st half 

104 The Coral Pin. 2d half 

204 Pi6douche, a French Detective 
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

First half 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

Second half 

453 The Lottery Ticket 

475 Tlie Prima Donna’s Husband. 
622 Zig-Zag, the Clown ; or. The 

Steel Gauntlets 

523 TheCon.sequencesof aDuel. A 

Parisian Romance 

648 The Angel of the Bells 

697 The Pretty Jailer. 1st half... 
697 The Pretty Ja'Il^'r. 2d half.. .. 
699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. 1st 

half 

699 The Sculptor's Daughter. 2d 

half 

782 Tlie Closed Door. 1st half 

782 The Closed Door. 2d half 

851 The Cry of Blood. 1st half... 

tel The Cry of Blood. 2ii half 

918 The Red Band. 1st half 

918 The Red Band. 2d half 

942 Cash on Delivery 

1076 The M.vstery of an Omnibus.. 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. 1st half 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. 2d half 

1082 'I'he Severed Hand. 1st half.. 
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coq. 1st half 

1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- 

coq. 2d half 

“The Duchess’s” VvorKs. 

2 Molly Bavvn 

6 Portia 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 

16 Pliyllis 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. (Large type 

edition) 

950 Mrs. Geoffrey 

29 Beauty’s Daughters 

30 Faith and Unfaith 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering 

119 Dlonica, and A Rose Distill’d.. 

123 Sweet is True Love 

129 Rossmoyne 

134 The Witching Hour, and Other 

Stories . , 


136 “That Last Rehearsal,’’ and 

Other Stories 10 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites... 10 
171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stoi-ies 10 

284 Doris 10 

312 A Week’s Amusement; or, A 

Week in Killarney 10 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart 20 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
bara 10 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories 10 

541 “ As It Fell Upon a Day.’’ 10 

733 Lady Branksmere 20 

771 A MeJital Struggle 20 

785 The Haunted Chamber 10 

862 Ugly Barrington 10 

875 Lady Valwofth’s Diamonds. . . 20 
1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other 

Stories 20 

1016 A Modern Circe 20 

1035 The Duchess 20 

1047 Marvel 20 

1103 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker. . 20 
1123 Under-Currents 20 

Alexander Dumas’s Works* 

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75 Twenty Years After 20 

259 The Bi ide of Monte-Cristo. A 
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Monte-Cristo ’’ 10 

262 Tlie Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part 1 30 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II SO 

717 Beau Tancrede: or, The Mar- 
riage Verdict 20 

1058 Masaniello; or. The Fisherman 
of Naples 20 

George Ebers’s Works. 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel 20 

983 Uarda 20 

10.56 Tlie Bride of the Nile. 1st half 20 
1056 The. Bride of the Nile. 2d half ^ 

1094 Homo Sum 20 

1097 The Burgomaster’s Wife 20 

1101 An"Egyptian Pi incess. Vol. I. 20 
1101 .An Egyptian Princess. Vol. II. 20 

1106 The Emperor 20 

1112 Only a Word ^ 

1114 The Sisters 20 

Maria Edgeworth’s Works. 

708 Ormond 20 

788 The Absentee. An Irish Story. 20 

3Irs. Annie Edwards’s Works. 

644 A Girton Girl 20 

834 A Ballroom Repentance ^ 

835 Vivian the Beauty 

836 A Point of Honor ..... 20 


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837 A Vagabond Heroine 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? 

839 Leah: A Woman of Fasliion.. 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her L’ortune? 

842 A Blue-Stocking 

843 Archie liOvell 

844 Susan Fielding 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or, The 

ftiorals of May Fair 

846 Steven Ijawrence. 1st half. .. 

846 Steven Lawrence. 2d half.... 
850 A Playwright’s Daughter 

George Eliot’s Works. 

3 The Mill on the Floss 

31 Middlemarch. 1st half 

31 Middlemarch. 2d half 

34 Daniel Deronda. 1st half 

34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half 

36 Adam Bede. 1st half 

36 Adam Bede. 2d half .' 

42 Romola 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 

Raveloe 

728 Janet’s Repentance 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 
Such 

B. Li. Farjeoii’s Works. 

179 Little Make-Believe 

573 Love s Harvest 

607 Self-Doomed 

616 The Sacred Nugget . 

657 Christinas Angel 

907 The Bright Star of Life 

909 The Nine of Hearts 

G. Maiiville Fenn’s Works, 

193 The Rosery Folk 

558 Poverty Corner 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 

609 The Dark House 

Octave Feiiillet’s Works, 

66 TheRomanceof aPocr Young 

Man 

886 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse ” 

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80 June 

280 Ornnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales 

715 I Have Lived and Loved 

721 Dolores 

724 My Lord and My Lady 

726 My Hero 

727 Fair Women 

7^ Mignon 

7:42 F’roin Olympus to Hades 

734 Viva 

736 Roy and Viola 

740 Rhona 

744 Diana Carew ; or, For a Wom- 

* an’s Sake 

883 Once Again 


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314 Peril 20 

572 Healey 20 

9:45 Borderland 20 

1099 The Lasses of Leverhouse. ... 20 
K, £, Fraucillou’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables 10 

360 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior.. 10 
911 Golden Bells 20 

Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life... 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 20 

33 The Clique of Gold ^ 

38 The Widow Lerouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival ^ 

144 Promises of Marriage 10 

979 The Count’s Secret. Part I... 20 
979 The Count’s Secret. Part II.. 20 

1002 Marriage at a Venture 20 

1015 A Thousand Francs Reward.. 20 

1045 The 13th Hussars 20 

1078 The Slaves of Paris.— Black- 
mail. 1st half 20 

1078 The Slaves of Paris. — The 

Cham pdoce Secret. 2dlialf.. 20 
1083 The Little Old Man of the Bat- 

ignolles 10 

Charles Gibbon’s Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

317 By Mead and Stream 20 

James Grant’s Works. 

566 The Royal Highlanders; or. 
The Black Watch in Egypt... 20 

781 The Secret Dispatch 10 

IHiss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

555 Cara Roma 20 

Arthur Griffiths’s Works. 

614 No. 99 10 

680 Fast and Loose 20 

II. Rider Haggard’s Works. 
43 '^ The Witch’s Head . 20 

7.53 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

910 She: A History of Adventure. 20 

941 Jess 20 

959 Dawn 20 

989 Allan Quatermam 20 

1049 A Tale of Three Lions, and On 
Going Back 20 

1100 Mr. Meeson’s Will 20 

1105 Maiwa’s Revenge 10 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C 20 

1145 My Fellow Laborer 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The, Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 


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690 Far From the Macldin?. Crowd 20 
791 The Mayor of Casterbridge. .. 20 

045 The Trumpet-Major 20 

957 The Woodlanders 20 

John ii. Harwood’s Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair ■ 20 

868 Within the Clasp 20 

MaiT Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto. . 20 

The Squire’s Legacy. 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished 20 

849 A Wicked Girl 20 

987 Brenda Yorke 20 

J026 A Dark Inheritance 20 

Mrs. Casliel-IIoey’s Work^. 

313 The Lover's Creed 20 

802 A Stern Chase 20 

Tiglie Hopkins’s Work*^. 

609 Nell Haffenden 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty 20 

Thomas Hugrlies’s Worlds. 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby 20 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. Vol. I. 20 
1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. Vol. II. 20 

Fergus W. Hume’s Works. 

1075 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. 20 
1127 Madam Midas 20 

Works by the Author (vT “Judith 
Wynne.” 

332 Judith Wynne 20 

506 Lady Lovelace 20 

William H. G. Kings^frn’s Works. 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean 20 

■<33 Peter the Whaler 10 

T61 Will Weatherhelm 20 

763 The Midshipman, Marmaduke 
Merry 20 

Vernon Lee’s Works. 

899 Miss Brown 20 

859 Ottilie: AnEigbteenth Century 
Idyl. By Vet non Lee. The 
Prince of the 100 Soups. Edit- 
ed by Vernon Lee 20 

Charles Le'^er’s Works. 

191 Harry Lorrequer 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 

Dragoon, 'ist half 20 

212 Charles O’Alalley, the Irish 

Dragoon. 2d half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” 1st half 20 
**43 Tom Burke of ” Ours.” 2d half 20 


Mni'y liinskill’s Works. 

473 A Lost Son 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 
Northern Sea 20 


Mrs. £. Tiynn Uuton’s Works. 


122 lone Stewart 20 

817 Stabbed in the Dark 10 

886 Pastou Carew, Millionaire and 

Miser 20 

1109 Through the Long Nights. 1st 

half 20 

1109 Through the Long Nights. 2d 

half 20 

Samuel Lover’s Works. 

663 Handy Andy 9$ 

664 Rory O’More 20 

Edna Lyall’s Works. 

738 In the Golden Days 20 

1147 Knight-Elrrant. ist half 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. 2d half 20 

1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 
man. 1st half 20 

1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 
man. 2d half 20 


Sir E. Bulwer Lytfou’s Works. 


40 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 

83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 20 

130 TheLastof the Barons. 1st half ^ 
130 The Last of the Barons. 2d half 20 

162 Eugene Aram 20 

164 Leila; or,The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel fo ” Ernest Maltravers ”) 20 

720 Paul Clifford 20 

1144 Rienzi. 1st half ^ 

1144 Rienzi. 2d half ^ 

George Macdonald’s Works. 

282 Donal Grant 20 

325 The Portent 10 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women 10 

722 Wha,t’s Mine’s Mine 20 

1041 Home Again ^ 

1118 The Elect Lady ^ 

Katharine S. Macqiioid’s Works* 

479 Louisa 20 

914 Joatf- Wentworth ^ 

E. Marlitt’s Works. 

652 The Lady with the Rubies 20 

8.58 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret 20 

972 Gold Elsie ^ 

999 Tlie Second Wife 20 

1093 In the Schillingscourt 20 

1111 In the Counsellor's House ^ 

1113 The Bailiff’s Maid W 

1115 The Countess Gisela 20 

1130 The Owl-House ^ 

1136 'J’he Princess of the Moor. ... ^ 

Florence Marryat’s Works. 

159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 

A Moment of Madness 10 

183 Old Coiitrairy, and Other 
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208 The Ghost of Charlotte Craj’^, 

and Other Stories 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses... 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 

440 Peeress and Player 

689 The Heir Presumptive 

8^ The Master Passion 

860 Her Lord and Master 

861 My Sister the Actress 

863 “My Own Child.” 

864 “ No Intentions.” 

865 Written in Pire 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; 

or, Spiders of Society 

867 The Girls of Feversham 

868 Petronel 

869 The Poison of Asps 

870 Out of His Reckoning 

872 With Cupid’s Eyes 

873 A Harvest of Wild Oats 

877 Facing the Footlights 

893 Love’s Conflict. 1st half 

89.3 Love’s Conflict. 2d half 

895 A Star and a Heart 

897 Ange 

899 A Little Stepson 

901 A Lucky Disappointment 

903 Phyllida 

905 The Fair-Haired Alda 

939 Why Not? 

993 Fighting the Air 

998 Open Sesame 

1004 Mad Dumaresq 

1013 The Confessions of Gerald Est- 

court 

1022 Driven to Bay 

1126 Gentleman and Courtier 

Captain Warryat’s Works. 

88 The Privateersman 

272 The Little Savage 

279 Rattlin, the Reefer 

991 Mr. Midshipman Easy 

Helen B. Mathers’s Works. 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal 

221 Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye 

4^ Found Out 

5.35 Murder or Manslaughter? 

673 Story of a Sin 

713 “ Clierry Ripe ” 

795 Sam’s Sweetheart 

798 The Fashion of this World 

799 My Lady Green Sleeves 

Justin McCarthy’s Works. 

121 Maid of Athens 

602 Camiola 

685 England Under Gladstone. 

1880—1885 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P.. 
779 Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. . 
George Meredith’s Works. 

350 Diana of the Crossways 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. 1st half 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. 2d half 

11.50 The Egoist. Ist half 

1150 The Egoist. 2d half 


Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller’s 
Works. 

267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 



Miser’s Treasure 20 

269 Ijancaster’s Choice 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret 20 

Jean Middlemas’s Works* 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 20 

539 Silvermead 20 

Alan Muir’s Works. 

172 “Golden Girls” 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Mulock’s Works. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman, 1st 

half 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. 2d 

half 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat 10 

808 King Arthur. Not a Love Story 20 

1018 3’wo Marriages 20 

1038 Mistress and Maid 20 

1053 Young Mrs. Jardine 20 

David Christie Murray’s Works. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea 10 

195 “ The Way of the World ” 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular 20 

691 Valentine Strange 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

Deuce 20 

698 A Life’s Atonement 20 

7.37 Aunt Rachel 10 

^6 Cynic Fortune 29 

898 Bulldog and Butterfli’-, and Ju- 
lia and Her Romeo 20 

1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Repent- 
ance 10 


Works by the author of “ My 
Ducats and My Daughter.” 

376 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter.. 20 


W. E. Norris’s Works. 

184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

^5 That Terrible Man 10 

500 Adrian Vidal 20 

8^ Her Own Doing » 10 

848 My Friend Jim 20 

871 A Bachelor’s Blunder 20 

1019 Major and Minor. 1st half 20 

1019 Major and Minor, 2d half 20 

1084 Chris 20 

1141 The Rogue. 1st half 20 

1141 The Rogue. 2d half 20 

Laurence Oliphant’s Works. 

47 Altiora Peto 20 

637 Piccadilly ..... 10 


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Mrs. Olipliant’s Works. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 

177 Salem Chapel 

205 The Minister’s Wife 

821 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
heritance 

837 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 

345 Madam 

351 The House on the Moor 

357 John 

370 Lucy Crofton 

371 Margaret Maitland 

877 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside 

410 Old Lady Mary 

527 The Da' s of My Life 

628 At His Gates 

568 'J'he Perpetual Curate 

669 Harry Muir 

^3 Agnes. 1st half 

603 Agnes. 2d half 

604 Innocent. 1st half 

604 Innocent. 2d half 

605 Otnbra 

645 Oliver’s Bride 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
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687 A Country Gentleman 

703 A House Divided Against Itself 
710 The Greatest Heiress in Eng- 
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827 Effle Ogilvie 

880 The Son of His Father 

902 A Poor Gentleman 

“ Ouida’s ’’ Works. 

4 Under Two Flags 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

116 Moths 

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226 Friendship 

228 Princess Napraxine 

238 Pascarel 

239 Signa 

433 A Rainy June 

639 Othmar. 1st half 

6.39 Othmar. 2d half 

671 Don Gesualdo 

672 In Maremma. 1st half 

672 In Maremma. 2d half 

874 A House Party 

974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 

His Own Hand. 1st half 

974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 

His Own Hand. 2d half 

981 Granvillede Vigne; or, Held in 

Bondage. 1st half 

981 Granville de Vigne; or, Held in 

Bondage. 2d half 

996 Idalia. 1st half 

996 Idalia. 2d half 

1000 Puck. 1st half 

1000 Puck. 2d half 


1003 Chandos. 1st half. 

1003 Chandos. 2d half 

1017 Tricotrin. 1st half 

1017 Tricotrin. 2d half 

James Payn’s Works. 

48 Thicker Than Water 

186 The Canon’s Ward 

343 The Talk of the Town 

577 In Peril and Privation 

589 The Luck of the Darrells 

823 The Heir of the Ages 

Miss Jane Porter’s Works. 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. 1st half. 
660 The Scottish Chiefs. 2d half. 
696 Thaddeus of Warsaw 

Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia 

611 Babylon 

Mrs. Campbell Praed’s Works. 

428 Zero : A Story of Monte-Carlo 

477 Affinities 

811 The Head Station 

Eleanor C. Price’s Works. 

173 The Foreigners 

331 Gerald 

Charles Reade’s Works. 

46 Very Hard Cash 

98 A Woman-Hater 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events 

213 A Terrible Temptation 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 

216 Foul Play 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy.. 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Peril- 

ous Secret 

2.35 “ It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter-of-Fact Ro- 
mance 

Mrs. J. H. Riddell’s Works. 

71 .^Struggle for Fame 

593 Berna Boyle 

1007 Miss Gascoigne 

1077 The Nun’s Curse 

“Rita’s” Works. 

252 A Sinless Secret 

446 Dame Dtirden 

598 “ Corinna.” A Study 

617 Like Dian’s Ki.ss 

1125 The Mystery of a Turkish Bath 

F. W. Robinson’s Works. 

1.57 Milly’sHero 

217 The Man She Cared For 

261 A Fair Maid 

455 Lazarus in London 

590 The Coi;rting of Mary Smith. . 

1005 99 Dark Street 


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W. Clark Russell’s Works, 

85 A Sea Queen 20 

109 Little Loo 2C 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

309 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage ^ 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 

Stories 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. 1st half... 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. 2d half 20 

884 A Voyage to the Cape 20 

9ie The Golden Hope 20 

1044 The Frozen Pirate 20 

1048 The Wreck of the “Grosvenor ” 20 
1129 The Flying Dutchman; or, The 

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Adeline Sergeant’s Works. 

257 Beyond Recall 10 

812 No Saint 20 

Sir Walter Scott’s Works. 

23 Ivanhoe 20 

201 The Monastery ^ 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

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353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
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362 The Bride of Lammermoor. .. 20 

363 The Surgeon's Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

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418 St. Ronan’s Well ^ 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

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507 Chronicles of the (janongate, 

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1060 The Ladi' of the Lake 20 

1063 Kenilworth. 1st half 20 

1063 Kenilworth. 2d half 20 

J. H. Shorthoiise’s Works. 

Ill The Little School-master Mark 10 
1148 The Countess Eve 20 

William Sime’s Works. 

429 Boulderstone ; or. New Men 

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580 The Red Route 20 

597 Ilaco the Dreamer 10 

649 Cradle and Spade 20 

Hawley Smart’s Works. 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

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867 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down 10 

847 Bad to Beat 10 

92o The Outsider 20 

Frank E. Sraedley’s W’^orks. 

833 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes 
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662 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 


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T’. W. Speight’s Works. 

150 For Himself Alone 10 

653 A Barren Title 10 

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Works* 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekylland 

Mr. Hyde .* 10 

704 Prince Otto 10 

832 Kidnapped 20 

8.55 The Dynamiter ^ 

856 New Arabian Nights 20 

888 Treasure Island 10 

889 An Inland Voyage 10 

940 'I’he Merry Men, and Other 

Tales and Fables 20 

1051 The Misadventures of John 

Nich(>lson , 10 

1110 The Silverado Squatters^ 20 

Julian Sturgis’s Works. 

405 M5' Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

694 .John Maidinent 20 


Eugene Sue’s Works* 

270 The Wandering Jew. Parti.. 30 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part H. 30 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I 30 
271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II 30 

George Temple’s Works. 


599 I^ancelot Ward, M.P 10 

642 Britta 10 

William M. Thackeray’s Works. 

27 Vanity P'air. 1st half 20 

27 Vanity Fair. 2d half 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond 20 

464 ’I'he Newcomes. Parti 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

670 The Rose and the Ring. Illus- 
trated 10 

Works by the Author of “The 
Two IHiss Flemings.’’ 

637 What’s His OlTence? 20 

780 Rare Pale Margaret 20 

784 The Two Miss Flemings 20 

831 Pomegranate Seed 20 

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141 She Loved Him! 10 

142 Jenifer 20 

565 No Medium 10 

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389 Ichabod. A Portrait 10 

960 Elizabeth’s Fortune 20 

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1066 My Husband and 1 10 

1069 Polikouchka 10 

1071 The Death of Ivan Iliitch 10 

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93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
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NO PKIOIC. 

669 Pole on WIn’st 20 

432 TtIK WITCH’S HEAD. By 

H. Kider Pln^jrard 20 

1146 Rhoda Fleming:. By George 

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1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 2d lialf 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

1st half. 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

2d half 20 

1148 The Countess Eve. By J. H. 

Shorthouse 20 


1149 Donovan: A Modern Engli.sh- 

man. By Edna Lyall. 1st half 20 
1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 


man. By Edi>a Lyall. 2d half 20 

11.50 The Egoist. By Geoi'ge Mere- 
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11.50 The Egoist. By George Mere- 

dith. 2d half 20 

11.51 For Faith and Freedom. By 

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11.51 For Faith and Freedom. By 

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11.52 From thg Earth to the Moon 

By Jules Verne. Illustrated. 20 
1153 Round the Moon. By Jules 

Verne. Illustrated 20 

11.54 A Judgment of God. By E. 

Werner 20 

1155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 
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11.56 A Witch of the Hills. By Flor- 
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1157 A Two Years’ Vacation. Illus- 
trated. By Jules Verne 20 

11.58 My Poor Dick. By J. S. Winter. 10 

11.59 Air. Fortescue. An Andean 

Romance. By Wm. Westall. 20 
1160 We Two. By Edna L5^all. 1st 

half 20 

1160 We Two. EdnaLyall. 2d half 20 

1161 Red Ryvington. By William 

Westall. 1st half 20 

1161 Red Ryvington. By AVilliam 

AVe.stall. 2d half 20 

1162 The Weaker Vessel. By David 

Christie Alurray 20 

1163 The Phantom City. A Volcanic 

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1164 Rob Roy. By Sir Walter Scott, 

Bart. 1st half 20 

1164 Rob Ro,y. By Sir Walter Scott, 

Bart. 2d half 20 

1165 The Sea-King. By Captain 

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1166 The Betrothed : A Tale of the 

Crusaders, and the Chronicles 
of the Ca nongate. By Sir 
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1166 The Betrothed : A Tale of the 

Crusaders, and the Chronicles 
of the Ca nongate. By Sir 
Walter Scott, Bart. 2d half.. 20 

1167 Captain Contanccau; or. The 

Volunteers of 1792. By Emile 
Gaboriau 20 

1168 The Flight to France; or, The 

Memoirs of a Dragoon. A 
Tale of the Day of Dumouriez. 

By Jules Verne 20 

1169 Commodore Junk. Bj'G. Man- 

ville Fenn 20 

1171 A Heart’s Idol. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 20 

1172 India and her Neighbors. By 

W. P. Andrew 20 

1173 Won by Waiting. By Edna 

Lyall ■ 20 

1174 The Polish Princess. Bj' I I. 

Kraszewski 20 

1175 A Tale of an Old Castle. By 

W. Heimburg 20 

1176 Guilderoy. By “Ouida” 20 

1177 A Dangerous Cat's-paw. By 

David Christie Murray and 
Henry Murray 20 

1178 St. Cuthbert’s Tower. By Flor- 

ence Warden 20 

1179 Beauty’s Marriage: or, “AVhat 

Some Have Found so Sweet.” 

By Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

1180 The Two Chiefs of Dunboy ; or. 

An Irish Romance of the Last 
Century 20 

1181 The Fairy of the Alps. By E. 

Werner 20 

1182 The Reproach of Annesley. 

By Maxwell Gray 20 

1183 Jack of Hearts. A Story of 

Bohemia. By H. T. Johnson. 20 


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GKOltGE MIJNlfo, Miiino's Piiblisliiiiff House, 

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